


Pygmalion

by organizedrebel



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Art Student AU, Don't Have to Know Canon, F/M, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I have basically taken the canon out back and shot it, I'll add more tags as I think of them, Reader is an artist, So this is based on a Greek myth, and Bucky is one damn fine work of art amirite, art gallery, i got carried away, not even an art student anymore, you graduated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/organizedrebel/pseuds/organizedrebel
Summary: After you graduated from art school, you're hired by a local art gallery to create a piece for an installation. A marble sculpture, to be exact, and he's the finest work of art you've ever made. Maybe you should really be more careful about what you wish for in the future, because statues REALLY aren't supposed to come to life and you need HELP and you weren't supposed to deal with this much stress after you graduated.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 80





	1. Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! I've started a new marathon, this time centering around an ancient Greek myth I'm quite fond of. The chapters here are longer than in Just Please Hide Him Here, but the consequence of that is that they take longer to write and release. And I can make no promises about getting these out in any kind of time, just because I'm going to be starting my final term in university and I REALLY want that degree. 
> 
> So this is the Reader equivalent of throwing the textbook out the fourth-floor window and telling you to call it by its first name, let's go!

You let out a heavy sigh, flopping back on your ratty couch and looking at your now-complete sculpture through new eyes. Ideally, eyes that hadn’t been strained for months now working on this damn chunk of marble, or eyes that weren’t bloodshot partially from sleep loss and partially from inspecting your reference drawings so closely, but you only had the one pair of eyes available to you. 

You weren’t covered in marble dust anymore, at least. Today had been all about finishing up the polishing. You’d only polished parts of the sculpture of a man, letting the hair and ground stay a little less shiny than the flesh and giving a little extra shine to the eyes. 

He looked… so _real._

And you groaned, laying sideways on your couch as you reached for your phone. It was late, almost ten at night, but you knew Steve would be awake. He rose early, and slept late. You tapped on your screen blearily, putting the device to your ear as it started ringing. 

_“Rogers.”_

“Save your fancy new work position pick up call for the other ladies, Stevie, it doesn’t work on me.” 

_“Ah, ____. You good?”_

“Yeah,” you muttered, groaning as you stretched your legs. “You should come visit me.” 

_“Now why would I do a thing like that?”_

“Because I finished your doppelganger who doesn’t look a thing like you and I need to share it before the gallery opening next month. Remember those papers I signed, promising not to show it to anyone who wasn’t directly involved until it was moved into the gallery?” you grumbled, running a hand through your hair. 

_“Hah, yeah. I, uh…”_ He trailed off and you heard papers rustling. Steve was working on something new, but he wouldn’t show anyone. It was supposed to be mixed media, and was a big secret. He hadn’t even shown _you_ , which hurt your feelings a little bit, but then you’d also kept yours mostly hidden from him and he’d been your _model_ . _“... I need a few minutes to wrap this bit up before the ink dries, then I’ll be over. Twenty minutes sound good?”_

“Perfect,” you said. “See you then. If you bring crappy greasy burgers and a milkshake I’ll pay you back when you get here.”

 _“Deal. See you.”_

You hung up, eyes running over your now-completed sculpture again. It really was magnificent. When you started your master’s project in art school based around the old masters’ marble sculptures of the Renaissance, you didn’t think it would end with a one-time (for now) contract with the best-known gallery in the city. You’d be lying if you said you’d take any of it back, though. 

The carved man standing on the short pedestal in the center of your studio had, somewhere along the line, turned into what someone you once knew had called ‘your Ideal.’ Your marble man was _perfect_ in your eyes _._ The broad shoulders, strong (well-proportioned) hands, narrow hips, clefted chin, and everything else. You weren’t sure, even under duress, that you could recreate the texture of the stubble across the sharp jawline, or add the little wrinkle around the belly button again, or replicate the detail with which the fingernails had been carved. He looked so _real_ , and it almost made you wistful. 

Art school and a scholarship had taken priority over relationships. As a result, you didn’t have much experience in the world of dating, but when the results sat in front of you the same way they did now, you didn’t have much to complain about. After all, you had good friends and a good career starting, plus enough to eat and a roof over your head. What more could you ask for? 

You yawned and that plan to close your eyes for a minute or two turned into Steve knocking on your door a half an hour later. You stumbled across the room to your door, flinging it open and falling face-first into Steve’s chest. 

You smelled burgers. 

“Gimme,” you mumbled, reaching around for the takeout bag. Steve gave it to you, and you used his broad chest to push yourself back upright, wandering over to your couch again. The marble man was on full display and Steve slowly walked around it, staring at it in wonder. 

“... ____, you’ve _really_ outdone yourself,” he murmured, stopping in front of the man and looking him up and down again. His slack jawed expression twisted into a wry grin when he finally looked between the man’s legs. “I see you went all out on the details.”

“You don’t want to know how many penises I had to look at to get a good likeness,” you told him through a mouthful of burger. 

“No, I really don’t,” Steve agreed, plopping down next to you and pulling the other burger out of the bag so he could bite into it. 

“Regardless, thanks for modelling for me,” you told him sincerely, patting his leg since his hands were busy. “I lucked out making friends with a twig in high school who bulked up in college.” 

“Easy access to a gym will do that to you,” he said cheekily, and you bumped shoulders with him. 

“Yeah, but tell me again how awesome he looks.” You gestured to the nude sculpture standing in the center of the room. 

“He looks phenomenal, ____, you should be proud.” 

“I am,” you preened, taking another too-big bite of your burger. “Think the gallery’ll like him?” 

“If they don’t, I’ll be amazed,” Steve responded, kicking his feet up on the thirdhand coffee table off to the side of the couch. You turned so you could lean your back against his shoulder with a heavy sigh. “Something wrong?” 

“Well, kinda,” you admitted. “Someone’s gonna want money for him.” 

“ _That’s_ what you’re upset about?” 

“And I’ll have to give him up.” 

“... Ah.” 

“Steve, you know I’ve been in sculpture for years. You know I’m good at sculpting and carving people,” you said, taking another bite of your burger before proceeding to try and talk with a full mouth. It kind of worked. “Uh dun wunn—” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Steve chided, and you obediently forced the chunk of food down your throat before opening your mouth again. 

“I was saying, I don’t wanna let him go. He’s the best thing I’ve ever made, how can I give that up?” 

“Well, come up with a ludicrous price and that way you’ll still be seen as a working artist,” Steve said with a shrug. 

“Easy for you to say. You pay rent with people and pet portraits. I’ve got bigger dreams.” 

He chuckled, but the sound was a little bit melancholy. “Yeah, don’t we all.” 

Neither of you had to — or wanted to — talk about the two years between graduating college and now, where you’d attempted to find work as a working artist in a city with an art school. Needless to say, it hadn’t gone too well, and you’d had to settle for a job as a barista while carving this son of a bitch in your free time. Well, what little you had. You’d lucked out when the director of the gallery this was for said she was looking for something resembling Classical sculpture as one of the works presented, which just so happened to be your forte. You felt lucky that you’d been quick enough to jump on the opportunity — and that what she’d been looking for hadn’t been Hellenistic sculpture. 

Steve worked in retail because that was the steadiest job he could find in the area that was still hiring, and supplemented his hourly wages with pet portraits and portraits of people. And somehow, the two of you managed to make it work. To his credit though he’d recently gotten promoted to a managerial position and that came with a pay raise. You were proud of him.

“Oh yeah. Hang on,” you muttered, reaching into the couch cushions to retrieve your wallet from where it had fallen earlier and pulling out a few bills to hand to him. “Here, for the burger. Thanks.” 

“No problem,” he said, accepting the few dollars. “... You planning to call the gallery in the morning?” 

“Yeah, or I might sleep in first and treat myself,” you said thoughtfully. “I’ve worked probably over seventy hours in the last six days, Stevie.” 

He gave you an understanding look. “You should request a day off every so often, just because you can.” 

“Nah, can’t do that. What will I do when I need a day or two for the gallery opening?” you said teasingly, though you were completely serious. 

“Mm, good point.”

“Speaking of which, how’s yours coming along?” 

He smirked and made a show of zipping his lips. You elbowed him in the ribs, eliciting a soft yelp. “Tell me or I’ll beat it out of you, Rogers.” 

“I’m shaking in my shoes.”

“You’d better be. Now tell me how it’s coming along. You’re being awfully secretive about it,” you instructed, balling up the wrapper of your burger and chucking it in the vague direction of the trash can across the room. 

“Well, I can tell you it’s coming along well. It’s… delicate,” he said hesitantly. “It’s… think a bunch of layers of paper, but instead of edges it’s more… erm…” 

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” you said quickly, “Just wanted to know how it’s going.” 

Steve gave you a grateful smile. “It’s going really well,” he summarized, and you patted his head. 

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Speak for yourself.” 

“Can it,” you said in a mock angry tone, getting up and stretching. Your back popped in a couple of places. “You wanna stay the night? I washed the sheets for the pullout bed if you want. And mine’s always open.” Steve hesitated, glancing between you and the door. 

“... Aw hell, sure,” he said with a small smile, and you grinned at him. It wasn’t unusual for you to crash at each other’s place. While the first dozen or so times, Steve had insisted on only sleeping on the pullout couch, hanging out one day had turned into an impromptu nap. After that he didn’t seem to mind the idea so much. And besides, you trusted him.

Getting ready for bed was a short affair. He had a toothbrush over here and you were pretty much always in pajamas — or rather, you were always in clothes you were willing to sleep in. You’d lucked out in finding a cheap queen-size mattress, which was at the top of the loft, so there was plenty of room for both of you. 

“Night, Steve,” you murmured drowsily as you rolled over to hit the light switch. 

“Good night, ____. And great work on… well. Him.” 

You giggled, but after that you were out like a light, as per usual. Steve was asleep shortly after, and you both slept uneventfully through the night.

* * *

You made a theatrical sound that was somewhere between a whine, a sob, and a groan, straightening your outfit. Steve poked his head around the corner to raise an eyebrow at you. 

“I hate getting dolled up for stuff,” you complained, about to run your hand through your hair before remembering exactly how much time Steve had spent on it, and dropping your hand. “UGH. When can we go home?” 

“We haven’t even left yet,” Steve chuckled, adjusting the knot on his tie in the mirror before coming over to you. “Besides, they need to see that the phenomenal artist they made a contract with is capable of looking nice under certain circumstances.” 

“Just show them pictures from the post-graduation party and call it a day,” you grumbled, taking your jacket when Steve handed it over. It was cool out this evening. “Don’t let me drink more than two of those cocktail things that they’re putting on a blue light special. I’ll think it’s a good idea to climb my new man like a stripper pole.” 

“I won’t,” Steve said in amusement. “Or maybe I might so I can film it and stick it on the web.” 

“Don’t you dare, you jerk. I’m just excited that I’ll be able to see whatever you’ve been working on for the last three months,” you retorted, fidgeting once your jacket was on. You hated wearing fancy clothing. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll see it soon enough. Are you ready?” 

“No.” 

“Good, then let’s get going,” he said cheerfully, offering you his arm as the two of you walked out of his apartment. You’d chosen to get ready over there since his bathroom was bigger, and he had more than one mirror around. Plus he’d wanted to do your hair and despite your bitching, you couldn’t really tell him no to that. He was a magician with braids. 

You took his arm with a good-natured sigh, and you both made the half-mile walk from his place to the gallery. That was another reason you’d chosen to get ready at his place — he was closer. 

“____, you’ve gotta relax,” he murmured as you approached the gallery entrance. Nobody was lining up outside the doors yet, it was too early, but as the artists, you were supposed to be there before the guests were. There were three or four other artists there already when you walked in, and you knew most of them, so you gave them a friendly wave. 

“Hey Steve, ____.” 

You turned to see a friend you’d made in grad school, and you gave Bruce a careful hug with a bright smile. “Hey, Bruce. How’re you holding up?” you asked fondly, eyes flicking to the expansive blown glass installment hanging above your heads while Steve and Bruce shook hands like adult men do. Typically, the artists in a gallery show would mingle around the work they’d created, and in this case, Bruce would be able to mingle everywhere in the main gallery room. “... What’s that compound supposed to be?” 

“It’s the molecular breakdown of a certain delta-endorphin,” he said with pride. 

“... I don’t want to know how long that took you. I mean, I know you’re good, but you’ve really knocked it out of the park!” you complimented, looking around the room at the interconnected blown glass molecular structure of… apparently a type of endorphin. “I honestly never thought your double-majoring in chemistry would come in handy in the art world.” 

“Just promise me one thing,” he said, nodding at where your sculpture stood near the center of the room. “Never, ever tell me where this idea came from. I don’t want to know. You did great, but I still don’t want to know.” 

“Prude,” you said dryly, patting his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, though.” 

“You two as well,” Bruce said with a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. “Have you seen Natasha’s work yet?” 

“No!” you said excitedly, looking around before pausing, “Though… That feels like her handiwork over there.” 

“How’d you guess?” he asked rhetorically. “She should be here soon, she said she’d actually be on time for once.” 

“And we all know how she loves her fashionably late entrances,” you giggled, bumping Steve’s shoulder. “Where’s yours? I still haven’t seen it yet and the curiosity is eating away at me.” 

“You didn’t even let _her_ see it?” Bruce questioned, eyebrows slowly rising towards his hairline. “Now I _know_ he’s been keeping it secret.” 

“I was pretty tweaked about it, yeah,” you said, playfully crossing your arms. 

Steve rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s, ah. Over in the corner. It’s the one with — ” 

“Steve, how did you _do_ that?!” you asked in amazement. “This looks like if you fused paper-mache with like… French Impressionism. That texture’s incredible!” 

“Ah, I dunno if it’s that great,” he murmured, a little bit pink. 

You shot him a bright grin. “Oh, just accept the compliment, you dope. This looks great!! How did you manage — ” 

“Pardon me, sirs and madam, the gallery is about to open,” a staff member said to you, gesturing back towards the doors. Anyone you could see outside was decked out in suits, bling, and occasionally fur. God, the rich people in town really didn’t cut any corners, did they? 

You gave an exaggerated sigh after the server walked back over to the bar in the other room, looping one arm around Steve’s and the other around Bruce’s so you were accompanied by _two_ handsome friends instead of just the one. “Well, nothing for it. Time to face the music.” 

“You mean ‘hear unending compliments.’ ” 

“And criticism, though, given the crowd I doubt it will be constructive. Rich snobs...” 

“There’s _nothing_ to criticize on yours,” Steve told you firmly as the three of you walked closer to the door of the gallery. 

You pasted a welcoming smile on your face as people started flooding in, starting to wish that you’d stayed home (if only it hadn’t been a clause in your contract with your gallery that you actually make an appearance). It was going to be a long night. 

For once Steve’s unending optimism paid off, and he turned out to be right — almost everything you heard about your work was complimentary. The only less-than-complimentary thing you heard was lamentations about the fact that he was only marble instead of flesh, which made you chuckle. If you’d thought that once since he’d been completed, you’d thought it a thousand times. 

At one point Natasha meandered over, though with her it looked less like meandering and more like prowling. You greeted her with a quick hug and a bright smile, offering a short analysis of the painting she’d done. 

“I’m impressed that you got the lines so straight and clean! As far as I know with oil paint, that’s damn near impossible. It looks like a graphic, and I can guarantee you that there will be posters with that on it someday soon. I’m really liking the color scheme.” 

She shrugged modestly. “I appreciate that,” she responded. “Yours... “ She shook her head in wonder. “I marvel at your patience, ____.” 

“Thanks, Natasha. Have you seen Tony’s yet?” 

“It’s in the other room,” the redhead said with an eye roll. “For all that he was a prodigy film student, he needs to start looking at subjects other than post-war, or he’s going to start running out of material until he makes his own.” 

“Knowing him, he will,” you giggled. “He’s definitely got the money for it. Hell, his parents financed all the new easels in the life drawing rooms and the oil painting rooms, remember?” 

“I remember, all right. I also remember how wobbly the godforsaken old ones were, like when that one in the corner collapsed on me and ruined my final project for painting three.” Natasha looked annoyed at the prospect, and you nodded, patting her shoulder. 

“I remember you drop kicking it across the parking lot. And then kicking the shit out of Tony when he asked what happened.” 

“And oddly enough, the next week there were new easels, how about that?”

“... I think Clint and I still have a bet going because of that.” 

“What bet?” 

“Whether or not Tony is still capable of having children after that,” you snickered, giving Clint a quick wave when you spotted him across the room. He signed a quick greeting, since it would have been less than prudent for him to call out to you. You had no doubt he had his hearing aids in tonight, though. “I’ll catch him later and find out whether that bet is still on.” 

“Oh dear. Rich lady in mink or ermine or whatever the hell it is, leaning too close to my painting,” Natasha sighed. “I take my leave. I’ll catch you later, ___.” 

“See you, Tash.” 

It wasn’t too much longer that you strayed from your general area over to where Steve was graciously accepting compliments on his own work. He shot you a bright smile after the patrons he was speaking with had left, and you linked your arm with his, humming cheerfully. “How’s your night going so far?” 

“Pretty well. Only had one real critic,” he stated. He glanced to your statue. “Yours seems to be getting pretty good reception.” 

“Except for a handful of prudes, yeah,” you chirped in a lower voice than you normally might’ve. After all, this was a _formal_ setting, you couldn’t do that here without compromising your reputation as a standup artist who had magic hands where marble was concerned. 

“So ____, where’d you get the inspiration for how gifted what’s-his-name is?” 

You rolled your eyes, swivelling on a heel (and taking Steve with you) when you turned to face Tony. Only he could delicately phrase a less-than-delicate question quite like that. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” you said sweetly, staring him down. 

It didn’t work, he was too confident. 

“Asking because, you know, there’s no way that can be natural—” 

“Of course it’s not _natural_ , Tony, he’s _marble—_ ” 

“ _—_ and if he’s _that_ gifted I was kind of wondering how Steve here compares since I’m assuming he was your model _—_ ” 

“ _—_ have you _tried_ maybe _asking_ Steve instead of just _assuming—_ ” 

“ _—_ but he has to have been your model since he and I are the only ones cut like that and you obviously didn’t ask me _—_ ” 

“ _—_ why would I have asked _you—_ ” 

“ _—_ which frankly I’m offended by _—_ ” 

“ _—_ when you have life model experience _then_ you can come talk to me _—_ ” 

Two hands appeared at the same time to clap over your respective mouths. The hand over Tony’s mouth belonged to the lady you could safely assume was his flavor of the week, a very pretty redhead who was different in the sense that she looked like she would take zero shit from him. The hand over _your_ mouth belonged to Steve, who looked mostly amused but also a little bit cautious. 

“Can you talk without snapping at him?” Steve asked you, and you nodded peevishly. He removed his hand from your mouth _—_ the redhead standing next to Tony did no such thing, looking at him critically. 

“You’ve got people asking what camera you shot that on in the other room,” she said softly. “Might want to go answer them.” 

“Or they could learn to read the sign that’s right _there_ ,” he grumbled, pulling his head away from her palm. “They could learn to respect the time of a _—_ ”

“Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, we know. Excuse us,” the redhead interrupted, steering him around and back to the room where the film exhibit was. 

After a moment, you turned to Steve. “Have you seen what he’s done yet?”

He groaned softly. “Not sure I want to. It’s probably starring only the rich and beautiful, knowing him. Remember how insufferable he was in digital darkroom?” 

“Too well. Have you taken a look at Thor’s stuff yet? I haven’t had the chance.” 

“Mmm…” Steve glanced back at his work. “I can afford to leave mine for a minute, if we grab two of the little drinks we can seem less like the artists and more like people who were invited instead.” 

“An excellent plan. Let’s go,” you whispered, pretending you were two black ops agents who were trying to blend in at a fancy party. It made the whole situation a little more entertaining, and the two of you came to a stop in front of Thor’s sculptures with a champagne flute each. He stood with pride next to the three… oddly-shaped sculptures, eyes lighting up when he saw the two of you. 

“____, Steve, pleasure to see you both,” he complimented, kissing the back of your hand. You’d never met his parents, only his brother, but you had to admire the sense of politeness and decency that Thor’s and Loki’s parents had managed to instill in their sons. 

“Great to see you as well, Thor,” you said warmly, giving him a careful hug in response. He and Steve clasped hands. “We came to investigate and see what you’ve done.” 

His bearded face shifted into a pleased grin. “Allow me to introduce to you the concept of lightning rods and sand,” he presented, gesturing to the… cloudy glass that looked like an upside-down root system. It had been cleaned and polished, it was obvious to _your_ eyes, but it was still strange. “If one places a lightning rod into the sand at the beach prior to a storm, when a thunderstorm appears and strikes the rods, the sand below is transfigured into glass,” he explained in satisfaction. “After a bit of care, this is how it looks.” 

“Thor, that’s brilliant,” you complimented, eyeing his work with a new appreciation. “Where did you get the idea??” 

“Do you recall when I was struck by lightning while hiking over spring break, in our junior year?” 

“Yeah, you came back from Norway or something with some weird scars and everyone was all ‘OMG what happened?’ “ 

“That is where I got the idea from,” he said proudly. “I am quite pleased with the results.” 

“As you should be,” Steve encouraged. “The only thing similar to this I’ve seen is when people pour melted metal into anthills, and this is far cooler.” 

“Thank you,” he said graciously, and you and Steve chatted with him a while longer before mingling a little more. 

For your part, you managed to snag a delicacy from the table in the next room when someone looped their arm through yours, starting to walk you back towards where your sculpture was. You looked at Natasha with a bit of surprise, alarmed a little further at her warm smile. When she kissed you on the cheek it made sense. 

“Hey babe,” you hummed, returning her smile. This was a routine the two of you had pulled through many college adventures _—_ if someone was giving her attention she didn’t want, Natasha would locate her nearest friend (often you) and play-act significant others. “I missed you. How’s the reception for your painting?” 

“Oh, it’s pretty good,” she responded in a slightly bubbly tone, turning with you so she could look over your shoulder while appearing to look at you. It was only through having run this many times that you resisted the urge to follow her gaze. “Most people like it, there’s been only…” 

She trailed off, seeming to relax a little and offering you a more genuine smile. “Thanks, ____.” 

“Anytime, Tash. What was _this_ one doing?” you asked, keeping your arm looped around hers and slowly making your way over to her work, so you could give it a closer look. 

“Hinting that I should come look at his shiny new sports car,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, if I wanted that I’d have gone to Tony first. I nearly did, he was the closest one, then I spotted you.” 

“Glad you did,” you muttered. “I know this is all nice fancy gallery setting, but men don’t change, honestly.” 

“Tell me about it. So, what do you think?” she asked you, gesturing fluidly to her painting on the wall once the two of you were in front of it. It was as tall as you were, and the surface was almost mirror-smooth. That was one of the benefits of working with oil paint over a long period of time, you supposed. 

“I’m really impressed,” you admitted. “And didn’t you already ask me about it?” 

“You analyzed it. You didn’t tell me what you really _thought_ though,” she pressed. 

You fixed her with a skeptical look. “You’re fishing for compliments.” 

“Throw me a bone, I spent longer on this than you said you spent on _him_ ,” she pointed out, nodding towards your sculpture. 

“I suppose you’ve got a point… alright, let’s see. I think it’s pretty rad, honestly. Super graphic. It’s something that, if it were poster-sized, I would definitely stick on my wall, it would brighten up the place for sure,” you rattled off. “I’d totally buy it if you make a poster version of it, by the way. I think it would fit nicely in a gallery with a bunch of Mondrian and Warhol works. That surface is like _glass,_ it reminds me of some of the old masters’ paintings from the Renaissance, you remember that course in art history? Because that’s what oil on panel looks like when you take your time _—_ well, you already knew that. And I really like the color scheme, that analogous one is one of my favorites, lots of reds,” you remarked, nudging her with your shoulder. Since your arms were still linked, it wasn’t hard to do. 

Finally, she smiled. It was small, but it was a smile you recognized as a real one, and you grinned at her. “Hard to believe we made it this far. Never thought when I met you in Mike’s painting course that we’d turn out here.” 

“If you start waxing philosophical I will never speak with you again.” 

“Okay, okay, point taken.”

* * *

The rest of the evening went relatively uneventfully _—_ save for a near-miss when someone brought their little boy in and he went running across the gallery floor, making all present nervous except for Bruce (but his sculpture was above everyone’s heads, he had no reason to be anxious). You’d made a caustic comment to Steve about how many parents believed in public settings that other people were there to watch after their children, and that discipline was a real thing that they needed to look into. 

He’d agreed, but cautiously advised you on phrasing it more delicately if you repeated it to someone other than him. 

Nobody got particularly drunk, though you did spot two patrons’ cheeks being a little red while holding nearly empty champagne glasses. They’d left too soon for you to tell if it _was_ caused by the champagne. 

Seeing as it was a weekend, it was a long gallery opening, going for just over four hours before you and your former classmates really felt comfortable leaving. Tony was the exception, he’d skipped out earlier. Natasha had bid you goodbye before catching a cab with Bruce and Clint to their apartment. They all lived in the same building, but Tash lived on a different floor than the boys, who split an apartment to save costs. You knew this because you’d considered moving in with Natasha for a while, until you found the loft you lived in now that suited you far better. Natasha had understood. 

Steve walked you home, since he didn’t live _too_ much closer to the gallery than you did, and he was likely safer walking home alone than you were. Thirty seconds after you bid him goodbye and closed your door you were stripping off the not-really-uncomfortable-but-still-weird formal clothing you’d worn, taking your hair down, and falling face-first into your mattress. You let out a slow breath, kicking off your shoes from where you were laying and rolling into your blankets. Showers at this hour were for chumps, you decided. You’d change your mind the next time you stayed up late, without a doubt, but for now, you were going to bed. Standing and talking for four hours and some change was _exhausting_ for you, and you needed some time to recharge. In the morning, you’d cook yourself breakfast, double check how long your sculpture was meant to be at the gallery, and go to work. 

For tonight, though, you slept without a care in the world. 

It was a few weeks later that you got the call from the museum about the accident. 


	2. That Time Shit Went Sideways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So mostly that T rating up there is for mention of naughty parts but also there's a decent amount of swearing because I hardly know how to talk without it. (That's a lie. I can be professional.) (That's also a lie no I can't.) And someone SHOULD be working on a proposal for a giant project, but is she? Hell no, some of us have better things to do. Like write fanfiction.

You practically sprinted over to the gallery, still struggling to get your other arm through your jacket sleeve on the way out the door. They’d caught you right after you got home from work, so you still had your apron on, but that didn’t seem to matter much once you started running. The cold air spiked through your lungs as you ran, the news from the phone call with the gallery echoing through your skull. 

_“There’s been a traffic accident near the gallery, and your sculpture was knocked against the inside of the transfer trailer.”_

They’d packed it so carefully, you’d overseen it when they came to get it before the gallery opening a couple of months ago. It would have taken nothing short of the trailer flipping over to cause damage to the sculpture on the inside of that trailer. 

Must have been a hell of a wreck. 

And even as you turned the last corner, you couldn’t bring yourself to be upset at the fact that you weren’t even thinking of the wellbeing of the professional sculpture movers, you were more concerned about the sculpture you’d spent months on, that arguably meant more to you than people you’d never met. 

Your intuition that the wreck was not a little fender bender proved to be right as you approached the gallery, panting and not watching your breath fog up in the air in front of you. Because there was a nondescript sedan with a crushed front hood resting against the back corner of the trailer, which had a massive dent in it. One of the tires on the trailer was at an angle that no tire should be at (probably as totaled as a trailer could be). You could see one of the movers outside the doors, talking to someone you recognized as a coordinator for the gallery, and a policeman was with them, taking notes on a little lined notepad. Another officer was speaking with someone else near the sedan, and you felt an abrupt surge of hatred towards that one person in particular. Whatever happened to your sculpture, you could blame on them. 

You jogged the last few steps up to the trio of people standing outside the gallery doors, asking breathlessly, “What’s happened?” Not in general, you thought you could already figure that out for yourself, but to your statue. 

The policeman stiffened, starting to open his mouth when the coordinator cut in, “She’s the artist involved, _we_ called her.” 

His expression cleared. “The driver blew out a tire,” he explained briefly. “Lost control of the vehicle and panicked, ran into the trailer there.” 

Your frightened expression turned back to the gallery coordinator, who knew what you were concerned about. 

“... There is damage.” 

A pause, probably to judge your reaction, of which there was none. “The left arm has been broken, as were a few of the fingers on the left hand.” 

By some miracle, you kept your composure, but your head was a cacophony of internal arguments. 

_It’s the driver’s fault._

_It is, but they had no control, you can’t blame them._

_Fucking watch me! I put my heart and soul into that sculpture—_

_And you can do it again!_

_No I can’t! I can’t replicate that!_

_You don’t_ need _to replicate it, just make something_ like _it!_

 _That’s what I’m saying, I_ can’t _make something like that! You don’t just re-make a masterpiece! I can and fucking will blame that driver they fucking_ owe _me for damages—_

_They’ll already owe the museum, look at them, they look ready to die._

_I know that feeling and they’ll get over it._

Around and around your head went, until you realized that you’d been silent a little too long, and you forced a smile out of a need for a defensive front. The wary look the coordinator gave you told you it wasn’t quite working. 

“Can I see him, please?” 

“Him?” the officer asked, and the coordinator stepped in once more to clarify. 

“The sculpture is a statue of a nude male.” 

The policeman pulled a slight face, but gestured anyway. “I have all I need, be my guest.” 

“Thanks,” you muttered distractedly, following the coordinator to the trailer. The door had already been unlocked — of course it was, you’d just been told what damages there were and the door had to be open to determine that — and you peeked in apprehensively, despite knowing what the damage would be. It didn’t prepare you for the gut-wrenching _pain_ you felt when you saw the shattered bits of marble across the floor, underneath the padding and safety straps. Your sculpture was still tilted at an angle, the stump of the left arm resting against the thin slice of unprotected wall where it had crashed upon being jolted by the accident. 

Your heart collapsed in your chest. 

He’d been perfect. A masterpiece. 

A masterpiece that was now missing a limb that you’d carved with painstaking detail, just like the rest of him. 

You could feel the tears welling up and you scrubbed at your eyes, looking down at the floor and picking up a chunk of the marble to turn over in your fingers. Something he was now lacking on one side. 

“I’m gonna fix him.” 

The coordinator was clearly confused. “I’m sorry?” 

“I can fix him.” Your head snapped up and you stared at your sculpture again with an almost frantic look in your eyes. “I can fix him. Not with marble, but-- if-- can you get him back to my loft? Not right now, of course, just — soon. I need — I need to find things to fix him with.” 

Clearly concerned now, the gallery coordinator placed a hand on your shoulder. “I understand losing a piece like this can be hard — ” 

“I’m fixing him with metal,” you interrupted. “Mixed media, instead of just marble. I can do this. Please, just — whenever convenient — I need you to bring him back to me. I can, and _will_ , fix him.” 

Maybe those two welding classes from university would come in handy after all. You’d need a drill, one to put holes in the marble. Some rebar, probably. Scrap metal. Maybe you could talk to the shop yard on the far side of town. Maybe they’d let you have some reject bits they couldn’t use — but you could. Remove any rust, buff them so they were nice and shiny, weld them together into an arm. Use the rebar in the holes, just like wooden dowel rods, to slot the arm to the shoulder. 

You could do this. 

“Okay,” the coordinator agreed cautiously, watching as you turned on a heel, starting to walk back the way you’d come, piece of marble still in your grasp. “Do you want me to — ” 

“I leave that driver up to you. I just… want my sculpture back. I’m gonna fix him.” 

You whipped your phone out of your pocket, getting the number for the scrap yard with a quick search and holding your phone to your ear. “Hi, Jim’s Salvage? Yeah, hi, my name is ____ _____ and I need a favor.”

 _“What can I do you for?”_ The drawl on the other end of the line was a little confused, mostly friendly, and you carried on as you paced away from the gallery. 

“I need some scrap. Stuff you guys don’t use, preferably quarter-inch steel if you’ve got it. Just odds and ends, corners. I’m a working artist in the city and I need to mend a sculpture with some scrap.” 

_“Huh.”_ He sounded quite noncommittal, and you made the decision to press your case. 

“I can’t pay much right now I’m afraid, but I figure if it’s stuff you guys aren’t using, it’s no loss to you.” 

_“You’ve got a point there, miss,”_ he said, but still sounded doubtful. You waited impatiently at the crosswalk you’d sprinted across earlier, wondering how far it was wise to try and push this matter. 

One more time. 

“I can arrange to pick it up, if that would be convenient for you,” you offered, hurrying across the street when the light changed. 

_“... Well, I’d have to speak with my supervisor—”_ That wasn’t a no. _“—but for whatever answer he gives, could I get your contact info so we can call you back?”_

“Yeah, absolutely,” you said cheerfully, giving it to him and repeating your name. You ended the call with effusive thanks — best to leave a good impression, after all — but your automatic smile vanished as soon as you hit the ‘end call’ button. Steve was next. He deserved to know as well. 

He wouldn’t be on break for another hour or two yet, if his shift had started at ten this morning, so you sent him a short and sweet text instead: _Call me when you can. Important._

There, short and sweet. 

Of course, just because Steve wasn’t due to take his break for another hour or two didn’t mean he couldn’t take it early, and you’d barely stepped in the doorway of your loft when your phone started buzzing, displaying a call from your friend. 

“Hey, Steve.” 

_“____..? You okay?”_

“No,” you answered. “Really not. But I’m not important here. When you get off work, can you come over?” 

_“I… guess, yeah, I’m not doing anything tonight. What do you need? What’s wrong?”_

“Long story. Well, less long story and more I don’t want to tell it right now or I’ll break down crying.” 

_“____. What’s. Wrong.”_

“Ooh, big scary bear man tone.” 

_“You tell me what’s wrong right now or so help me I’m coming over there right now.”_

“Okay, okay, Christ,” you muttered, shedding your jacket and preparing yourself for tears you didn’t want because they wouldn’t help anything. But the numbness that had kicked in when you decided you were going to fix your statue was starting to wear off. 

Half an hour later, you were in tears and still on the phone with Steve when someone knocked at your door, and your head jerked up in confusion. Upon opening the door, you were greeted with Steve ending the call and wrapping both arms around you, pulling you into an encompassing hug that you didn’t know you needed until right then. 

You’d ask him later what the hell he was doing in your loft, and why the fuck he left work early, and you would never get a straight answer, but you _would_ end up ordering cheap Chinese delivery and sitting in your floor with Steve, crying some more over your lo mein and into his shoulder occasionally. From time to time you’d babble out your plans for your statue’s arm, and bitch about the scrap company that _hadn’t called you back yet_ and pleading with Steve to help you play nice with your former university to get them to let you use the welding tools, among other things. 

The idea to go and drink your distress away did occur to you, and for a moment it was a tempting idea, but then you shut it down. You’d lost a friend in university already to alcohol. That wasn’t to say you would _never_ drink, but… this was not a situation you wanted to drink in. Distress was not a reason to drink. Not for you. 

So you replaced the idea of alcohol with actual chocolate from a stash hidden literally under one of your floorboards, one you just kept adding to periodically for times when you didn’t want to leave the loft. 

“... ____… do I want to know why you have all this here?”

“No Steve. You probably don’t,” you responded, but the lighthearted affect you were going for didn’t really _work_. So you offered him a chocolate bar, which he accepted, and then bit into your own with a vengeance unmatched by any mood a menstruation cycle could possibly elicit. Needless to say, you were still upset over the statue that had taken about a fiftieth of your life to complete. Saying it took several months didn’t sound so much. Saying it took an actual fraction of your life sounded much more dramatic — and felt much more accurate to you. 

Two hours and a severely depleted chocolate stash later, Steve was lounging on your couch while reading something on his phone, and you were passed out in his lap. It wasn’t an unfamiliar position for the two of you, especially after finals right before you both graduated, because human contact tended to help reduce stress. That was the logical explanation. The common one was that snuggling helped bad moods, which it did. 

You must have dozed off at some point, because when you opened your still puffy eyes again weak daylight was streaming in through the window, and you lifted your head with a muted groan, cracking your head. You’d apparently slept on Steve’s chest most of the night, and he was still asleep, head resting against the arm of the couch. He looked so much younger when he was sleeping. 

Of course, that was typical of most people, because when they were asleep, their real world concerns and stressors waved off for a few hours, leaving them peaceful. You probably weren’t much different. 

Grunting quietly, you extricated yourself from Steve’s arms and legs mercifully without waking him, and you stumbled over to the refrigerator. Maybe you could scare up some breakfast for the two of you. It was absolutely the least you could do, especially after Steve had dropped everything and showed up at your door yesterday because —

 _That’s right._

You physically cringed, letting the fridge door swing shut as you remembered the whole reason Steve was over here in the first place. 

Your statue. 

You gave your head a quick shake, opening the refrigerator again and pulling out the eggs you had left in the carton. Six, that should be plenty to feed the two of you. You didn’t have normal omelette ingredients right now, but you _did_ have some cheese, salt and pepper, and half of a tomato from the other day, so that would have to be enough. You needed to go grocery shopping. 

You started coffee before actually finding a pan for the eggs, and set out two mugs as well. Steve sat up to blearily peer over the back of the couch at you a little bit later, when the clanking of a pair of plates and the beep of the coffee maker woke him. 

“How are you awake before me..?” 

“Hungry,” you said simply, sliding both halves of the super-sized omelette onto their respective plates and handing him his with a fork, waiting for him to set it down, then handing him his coffee. “There’s hot sauce in the fridge if you want some, but this is what I can make for now.” 

“Thanks.” 

You nodded in response, sinking down onto your couch next to him and using your fork to cut a piece of your omelette. It was halfway to your mouth when your cell phone started buzzing. You gave it a confused look before answering, not recognizing the number displayed. 

“This is ____.” 

_“Hello, Ms. _____? This is Jim from Jim's Salvage, one of my employees told me this morning you called yesterday.”_

You straightened in an instant, breakfast forgotten. “Yes, hi!” Hope rushed through you, borderline painful. “Did he tell you what I was after?” 

_“He gave me a general idea, yes ma'am. Something about a sculpture..?”_

“That's right. A sculpture of mine was damaged in transport yesterday, and instead of trying to super glue everything together I'm hoping to weld some scrap together to mend it.” 

_“I see. What kind of scrap did you have in mind?”_

“Ideally quarter-inch steel, since that’s something I’ve worked with before.” That reminded you — you had to contact your college and see if you could use some of the welding equipment on site, and failing that, a studio that had the equipment that you could beg for time with. Easier said than done. 

_“Hmm… I don't see a problem with it, except that legally I can't just_ give _it to you. There has to be some kind of transaction.”_

Your heart sank. “I perfectly understand.” 

_“However, seeing as it's material we can't really use, there won't be much of a price attached to it, it's mostly a formality, and you can come and take your pick if you like.”_

You perked up at this new information, a smile starting to pull at the corners of your mouth. “That sounds like a fantastic arrangement, Jim,” you chirped. After hashing out a few more details, like the price for various pieces of steel that they would put aside for you, you said goodbye, hung up, and stuffed your face with a slightly manic grin. 

Steve eyed you, though with awe or concern you couldn’t quite tell. “... Chew, will you?” 

“No.” 

He sighed, taking a normally-sized bite of the food on his plate. Despite starting to eat later than he had, your own food was nearly gone. 

“Okay. Okay okay okay. I need to — yeah, okay. Just gotta call then — ooh, I should look that up — ” 

“____.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Explain. Please,” Steve requested, taking the last bite of his food and sitting back to look at you. There was no escape from his too-blue eyes and you gave him a grumpy look you didn’t really mean, because really, who could look at Steve and be grumpy _at him_ specifically?

“I just made a deal,” you finally relented with a huff, “With the nearest scrapyard for some… well. Scrap metal. Now I need to call the university to see if I can borrow some of the welding equipment while still on-premises, or whatever, because obviously they’re not gonna let me leave with it, and if they say no I need to find a studio that has welding stuff I _can_ use. Because I’m gonna fix my statue,” you said, gesturing vaguely as you referred to the sculpture that still wasn’t back in your loft. They’d probably get it back to you sometime today — once they compiled all the bits and pieces left of his arm into a box or something. That’s what they had done with the _Piet_ _à_ when some lunatic smashed Mary’s outstretched arm in the seventies, right? And professional restoration people had managed to piece it back together from the pieces and dust in the box in question. 

Problem was, you _weren’t_ a professional restorer and didn’t have the kind of money that would be necessary to hire someone to do the same for your sculpture. Doing it yourself would require years of experience you didn’t have. 

So really, a paradigm shift was your best bet. 

Steve, for his part, nodded as he digested the information, and you took advantage of the silence to stack both of your empty plates together, taking them to the sink. You’d wash them later. 

“... When are they bringing the statue back around? Because I’m assuming they will.” 

“Oh, they will. Or they should. I asked them to,” you clarified. “But I didn’t hang around long enough to get a time frame. _I'm_ assuming they’ll call me once they get him safely strapped in again — well. Saf _er_. I would hope,” you added in a mutter. 

“Want me to call the university for you?” 

“Nah, it’s better if I do it, then go in person or something,” you said, waving him off. “They’ll remember my face better, have a face to put with the name — same logic as following up after a job interview, you know? — and really, who wouldn’t trust _this_ face?” you questioned, shooting Steve an intentional slightly unhinged grin. 

He chuckled, the rumble coming from deep in his chest. “Well, I need to get back to my place, I have a shift today starting at twelve. I got Sam to cover my shift yesterday, but I’d rather not do that two days in a row,” he said, rising to his feet.

“Yeah, I completely get you, go on. And Steve?” 

Steve looked at you, raising his eyebrows. 

“Thank you. I know you kinda… dropped everything, and — for what it’s worth, I appreciate it,” you told him, eyes softening just a bit. It wasn’t _rare_ exactly for you to show true gratitude, but it _was_ unusual for you to drop your sarcastic humor to do so. Your sarcasm was your defense mechanism, and you didn’t let that down around many people. Steve was one of the few who recognized it and appreciated it, just like you appreciated his loyalty and dedication as a friend. 

He smiled, the line between his eyebrows easing a little. “You’re welcome, ____.”

* * *

The call (and following visit) with your former university didn’t go quite as well as you’d hoped. You’d received a gentle — but definite — ‘no,’ which meant combing the studios in the city you knew of to see if they welding equipment to rent. Most didn’t, but for the ones that were uncertain, you left your name and cell phone number so they could call you back once they had an answer. The one that _could_ confirm they had the equipment over the phone was charging an exorbitant hourly price for it, so you kept that option on the back burner. For almost a week, it didn’t seem like you would meet with success that was within your price range, which was more than a little frustrating. 

You were fortunate enough with your job to make enough to cover rent, utilities, and food each month with a bit left over that you hoarded like a miser. It had come in handy a few times that you did when something came up, like an insurance issue, or taxes in spring. 

Also, for times like these. 

Somehow it never occurred to you to request that the gallery finance this, since the statue had been in their care when the accident occurred, but when the idea _would_ occur to you a week later, you’d determine it was too late. Also it would make you feel like an asshole, which you hated.

You had been on your way to the studio that had the equipment for rent when one of the others (that happened to be closer to your loft) called you. 

As it turned out, they _did_ have the welding equipment you needed, so long as you were the one that supplied the materials, for a lower price. The quality of the brands they named were… decidedly less good than the ones the more expensive studio offered, but alas, they were your better option. They would still function much the same. 

The welding helmet, you would need to buy, but as sculpture materials went it wasn’t that pricey. Not a decent one, anyway. That was why you were at the tools and home improvement store now that was closest to one of the bus stops, eyeing the meager selection. You could probably find better ones online. You also knew that you didn’t really care, because if you couldn’t try it on, you wouldn’t buy it. Period. Full stop. 

You picked one up experimentally, weighing it in your hands. The weight didn’t really matter as far as safety was concerned, but you were picky. You had reason to be. Protection was important. Hell, you could hear your sculpture teacher in the back of your head now: _“Heavy jeans, kids. No skirts, no leggings. Close toed shoes. I see any sandals or high heels, I’m booting you back into the hallway. Long hair tied back. I remember when I was about your age, grinding metal, and thought my left shin felt a little warm relative to my right. I look down, my jeans are smoking! Trust me, you’d rather be able to have a second to realize ‘oh, I’m on fire’ and get rid of the things rather than be actively burning. Not ending up with second degree burns is worth ending up in your boxers in the middle of the sculpture studio.”_

And oh, how right he had been. Especially when one of the grinders had chipped, but somehow the shop teacher (not the same person as your sculpture teacher) hadn’t seen, causing the blade to fracture and go flying off. One chunk of it ended up embedded in the wall — another was discovered firmly lodged in one of the lenses of Steve’s safety glasses. Thankfully, nobody had been hurt, but the shop teacher (after checking on everyone) had reminded you all — _“THAT’S why you wear safety goggles.”_

When you first met Steve, you hadn’t believed his near-death stories. 

After being friends with him for a few years, especially after college, you couldn’t believe he was still alive today with all limbs attached. 

His story about the train he’d almost fallen off the top of still ranked as one of your favorites, though. 

“Can I help you?” 

You jerked back to the present day with a sharp inhale, realizing you’d been staring aimlessly at the helmet in your hands and switching your gaze to the employee. 

“Oh, uh — no, just thinking about what I’m needing. Studio provides some stuff, I provide the rest, and I’m trying to remember the list of what I need,” you explained hastily. 

They politely nodded, adding, “Let me know if you need help finding anything,” before they retreated to the head of the aisle. Someone else quickly caught their attention, and you exhaled slowly. Why were people so hard to talk to? 

With a slight frown, you looked back to the helmet you’d picked and fitted it over your head. It was a little loose, nothing that couldn’t be altered, but the field of view was pretty narrow. Then again, if you were working on what was right in front of you, field of view wasn’t something you’d really worry about. 

The question was, how well could the helmet do its job? You pulled it off your head again, giving the price tags for the helmets in front of you another cursory glance before heading off for a different aisle with the helmet under your arm. For your price range, this was the best option. A few more materials (and a not-insignificant dent to your checking account) later, you were walking out of the home improvement store, making for the bus stop. 

You had a mental list for what you needed to do now. A few parts of the shattered arm were clamped together back at your loft, with the epoxy drying. You’d need something roughly the same size as the arm that had been broken so you had something to refer to when you were welding pieces together later. The hand and fingers had taken the worst of the damage, so you weren’t even opening that box. The upper arm, shoulder, and forearm were your priority. Hands were easier, they mostly ran the same size with your average man. Besides, this was going to be rough welding, not delicate chisel work. It wasn’t supposed to be as exact as the rest of the statue. 

And that was just fine. Your work would no longer be the same entity that it had been, something entirely new. And with that state of being came new limitations, new angles. New ways to see something that would be patched together. 

Something that was more than the sum of its parts. 

And that was part of what made it beautiful. 

Made _him_ beautiful. 

It was only after you walked through the door of your loft that your phone started buzzing, and you glanced at it with surprise. _Why’s the gallery calling me..? Maybe they want to settle or something._ That in mind (and reminding yourself of the fact that ignoring calls just because you weren’t up to talking to someone was not an Adult Thing to Do), you hit the green button and held the phone to your ear. 

“This is _____,” you answered, 

_“Hello, Ms. _____, I’m Maria Hill,”_ a cool female voice answered. She briefly introduced herself as the curator to the gallery, and while you’d seen her name in connection with official gallery contracts you didn’t think you’d met her yet. Hence the introduction. _“I’m calling in connection with the accident last week, involving the transportation of your statue.”_

Your stomach twisted, just as it did every time you reminded yourself that your masterpiece was damaged beyond repair. You locked that thought down with sheer will. _I’m gonna fix him. He’s not damaged beyond repair. He won’t be perfect, but he doesn’t need to be._ “Yes?” you found yourself saying, a questioning lilt to the end of the word. 

_“You’re aware that our gallery sometimes handles transactions between parties, as far as transfer of ownership for specific works are concerned?”_

Your heart lurched almost painfully in your chest at the potential implication, but you steadied. There was no sense in getting excited over this. This could be a precursor to something completely unrelated. 

“Yes,” you replied carefully. 

_“And you recall signing a document that states your work from the opening last month was for sale, at a price to be decided at a later date?”_

“Yes…” You _did_ remember signing that. Two people had been required to witness it, Steve had been one of them. But how did that change in accordance with the damage to your sculpture? 

_“We’ve had a potential buyer express interest in the sculpture —_ after _the accident.”_

You found yourself speechless for a minute, sputtering over the phone and nearly dropping the bag from the hardware store that was still in your other arm. “But — what — I mean — Um. Under — under what circumstances?” you managed, setting the bag on the couch before you almost dropped it again and beginning to slowly pace. Being on the phone made you want to move around. Maybe it was anxiety, you decided with no small amount of sarcasm. 

_“They’re aware of the damage to the left arm, and are… curious about what alterations you plan, if any. Of course, potential communication between you and the potential buyer is reliant on if you’re interested.”_

You couldn’t help a quick inhale. There was still a way to salvage this, and on top of it, you could get decent money for it. What working artist would turn that down? But your earlier words to Steve from a month ago echoed through your head. Even after this, you still didn’t want to part with your sculpture. It was arguably the best work you’d ever done. “Erm…” As amazing as the sculpture was — and would be again, you reminded yourself firmly — it wouldn’t do anything around your loft but gather dust, and be another fragile piece of furniture to move when you _did_ eventually move again, maybe in a few years. 

Part of being a working artist was making art to sell and earn money. 

You knew this going in.

“Uh… yes, yes I’m interested,” you responded at last, hating the words even as you said them. You didn’t want to part with your sculpture. But you were going to anyway, because it was part of how you made your living. 

_“Wonderful. May I ask what alterations you intend, so I may inform the buyer?”_ It helped, really, how businesslike Hill sounded, almost detached. It was easier to think of your sculpture as just an item instead of something precious to you that way. You didn’t want to be attached when you finished, because then it would be gone.

“Yeah, um… Sorry, I’m just a little caught off-guard,” you apologized, rubbing the back of your neck. 

_“Perfectly fine. Sometimes these things can happen quickly,_ ” Hill said smoothly. God, but she was good at this. You respected her decorum. 

“I’m planning on grinding down a small amount of the marble left on the shoulder,” you began, “Then welding some intentionally rough scrap metal together to make a new arm. The, uh… the old one is in too many pieces to fix with any degree of accuracy.” 

_“Understandable. Am I correct in assuming the new limb would be of the same dimensions as the original?”_

“Yes, that’s correct. Or if not exactly the same, definitely close.”

You could hear the faint scratching of a pen on paper. _“In the same position, I take it?”_

“Yes, again, if not the same, then very similar.” You were getting better at talking about your sculpture objectively. You didn’t _like_ it — part of you wanted to hold on to what that statue meant to you — but it was necessary if you were going to sell him. 

_It._ Not him. It. The sculpture wasn’t sentient. 

_“Excellent. Before negotiations begin, would you like to come in to the gallery sometime in the next few days and review the contract?”_

That was probably a good idea. You remembered reading it, and signing it after reading, and you trusted your judgment then. But for the life of you, you couldn’t recall what the specifics had been.

“Uh, yeah — _yes_ , that would be fantastic. What day works for you?” you asked, remembering just enough of how to successfully adult to be courteous. 

_“Any day this week, really. How does Tuesday sound?”_

You worked most of the day Tuesday, you’d be dead on your feet by three PM. But you’d asked out of work pretty often in the last few weeks. “Could you do Wednesday instead?” 

_“Absolutely. How does two sound?”_

“That sounds great. Thanks again, Ms. Hill.” 

_“Of course. I’ll see you Wednesday.”_

The call ended and you slowly sat down on your couch, exhaling. This was a thing that was happening. You glanced up and over at your sculpture, which due to positioning was staring somewhere off to your left. 

You really didn’t want to sell him — it. Sell it. But there was little point in keeping the statue around. 

Picking up your phone again, you typed out a text message to Steve to fill him in on what had just transpired. You weren’t sure you wanted to deal with this on your own. God, that made you sound kind of clingy, but Steve knew the drill. If he didn’t want to hold your hand through this, or didn’t have the time to, he would tell you. That was an agreement the two of you had made years ago. 

His response was a bit delayed, and you reminded yourself he was probably at work. Again. Steve worked a lot. 

_How much are you thinking?_

You chewed at your lip, tapping out a reply. _Not sure. The gallery helped with buying the marble in the first place, and since they’re mostly handling it, they get like. Thirty or forty percent? Something crazy._ _IDR. Going in to look at the contract again on Wednesday._

No matter what the percentage was, you’d still be getting a big cut. As a working artist you should be happier about this. 

You weren’t, but you should be. 

This time, Steve’s response was immediate. 

_Good, I’m happy for you. Proud of you for being ready to part with it._ _:)_

You hummed absently, looking at your statue again. You _weren’t_ ready to part with it. You were going to, but you weren’t _ready_. 

That didn’t matter when you were an adult, though. You weren’t allowed to dig your heels in, to not want to let something go. You just couldn’t _do_ that. 

Glancing at the clock on your phone, you huffed and jerked yourself out of your inner turmoil, going to get changed for work. You had to be there in a bit, anyway, and be home late and get plenty of sleep for tomorrow. Tomorrow you picked up some scrap and started welding. 

Whether you were ready to or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized how much code switching is going to happen in this fic as a whole. Side note if you're unfamiliar with the term, code switching in this context is changing dialects or HOW you speak depending on who you're talking WITH. In this chapter we saw a great example when you (the reader) answered your phone to speak to Maria Hill — you switched to a more professional way of speaking, different from when you're with Steve, for instance. There's your lesson of the day!  
> Constructive criticism is always welcome here, and I love hearing what you guys think. :)


	3. Possession, Obsession, Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to get to work on that arm, maybe have a beer or two while you're at it, eat some absolutely LOADED fries, and make some wishes! Or is that just you?

_“Half moons look like squiggles, you cretins.”_

_“Then what’s the difference functionally?”_

_“Circles look prettier. That’s literally it. See, once it’s cool and it’s set, and you’ve cleaned it up and all, it looks like a welded blob. It’s all about_ style _, you got it?”_

Oh, how you missed your sculpture teacher from junior year. The insults that he’d incorporate without _actually_ offending anyone really made the class most of the time. Of course, that came with the added benefit of still remembering his lectures years later. Just like you still remembered some of the constantly-changing stories he told people who asked when they saw he only had one eye.

How he managed to do half of the sculptures and demonstrations he did with limited depth perception was beyond you. 

You straightened up from the very, very fine welding you were doing with a huff, cutting off the blowtorch and flipping your visor up with clumsy, gloved fingers to inspect your still-glowing work. (Those clumsy gloves would keep you from getting burned and losing fingers, so they served their purpose, but you would never _enjoy_ wearing them.) You could hear your sculpture teacher in the back of your head, criticizing your work, and quietly resolved to do better on the next pieces. These weren’t a _bad_ job — they worked, which was all you were after — but they weren’t quite as neat as they could be. You carefully set your blowtorch down, stretching your arms over your head while being careful to _not_ fall off your stool. The ground in this studio was concrete for several reasons, and that would not feel good on your tailbone. 

A glance at the clock above the door had you doing a double take, though. 

_“Shit!!”_ you hissed, scrambling to clean your tools up without burning yourself or breaking anything. After all, most of these tools weren’t yours, you were renting them. The studio here had been kind enough to offer you a large “locker” (which you had to pay for, naturally, but it wasn’t an arm and a leg, at least). It was a large, chain-linked area about eight feet tall, four feet long, and six feet wide with a small set of metal shelves. It wasn’t much, but just like the gloves, it served its purpose. 

After shedding the leather bolero, gloves, and helmet, you shoved the scrap you had yet to use on the middle shelf, climbing the stepladder to gently put the arm-in-progress on the top where it was least likely to have something fall on it. Then you hurried out of your ‘locker,’ latched the padlock you had rented with the locker itself, and grabbed your jacket, wallet, and phone. 

At this rate you wouldn’t have time to shower before meeting with Maria Hill. But you could at least wash your hands, you decided grumpily. Handshakes were part of being an adult and interacting with other adults. So washing your hands was a necessity. 

You hit the restroom here before leaving, so you had a chance to scrub your hands, comb your hair a little so it was partly in order, and actually use the restroom for it intended purpose, not in that order. After that, you were on your way to the gallery, walking faster than you normally might and adopting the ‘don’t fuck with me’ walk that had served you well through college and so far into adulthood. Nobody bothered you, which was your intent. 

You only really noticed how much your slightly grimy jeans and flannel overshirt really stuck out when you actually got to the gallery doors. Nothing you could do about it now, you reminded yourself firmly, took a deep breath, and pulled the door open. 

The welding studio smelled more like home than the slightly lemony floor-cleaning solution the gallery used. 

“Hello. Are you Ms. _____, by chance?” 

The voice was cool, calm, and collected, and you recognized it immediately from the phone call last week. “Yeah, that’s me. Ms. Hill?” 

“Maria,” she corrected with a smile, extending a hand for a handshake. At least you’d predicted this part, you reflected, offering a matching smile and shaking her hand once. She had a comfortably strong grip that wasn’t going to leave bruises, and your respect for this woman rose. “My office is just down here, if you’d like to follow me.” 

You nodded a little absently, glancing around at the empty gallery you passed. It seemed eerie, almost. You’d never seen this place _empty._ But they were changing out which installations were here, as they did every so often, and it had a sort of feel like stairwells did, or playgrounds during the night, or your friend’s living room once everyone else had gone to bed. Time sort of… warped a little bit. 

But then Maria turned a corner to walk down a hallway labelled _STAFF ONLY_ and you refocused on the matter at hand. 

Her office was clean and felt much like the gallery, with clean, white walls and wood floor. All of her furniture had a distinctly modern feel to it, but there was nothing that wasn’t of use. Everything had a purpose here, and everything was in order. 

You sat once she did, and without wasting any time she pulled a specific file folder from a tray on her desk, flipping through it before removing a few sheets of paper with signatures on the bottom. You knew them to be yours. 

“Now. Here’s the contract you signed for your statue’s creation and time at the gallery,” she began, laying down several sheets of paper stapled together. 

You remembered that one, and you nodded. 

“This next one—” She laid down a single sheet on top of the packet. “— Is your agreement that the statue was, and is, for sale, with price to be decided later.” At your second nod, she continued, laying down another set of stapled papers with signatures. “ _This_ one is the actual contract we need to discuss today. This one, as you may recall when you called in the witness of your choice to see you sign it, details the gallery’s cut of the given price should the piece sell — forty percent, if memory serves.” 

You nodded again. They’d paid for the acquirement of the marble in the first place (which was from _Italy,_ no less), so it was actually a quite generous deal. 

“There’s a back sheet to it that, as I’m sure you recall, you chose to leave blank for the time being,” Maria proceeded, flipping to said page. “This one is _your_ choice. It offers the option for someone from the gallery to represent you when discussing the price for the sculpture with the potential buyer.”

“What would that set me back?” you questioned. It sounded… wonderful, actually, to not have to think about it and stress over what might seem like a fair price for the art version of the love of your life. And after properly meeting Maria Hill, you had decided she seemed like the type of person to run a tight ship. She wouldn’t hire someone incompetent, meaning whoever she chose to represent you in the sale would do a decent job. 

The fact that you’d never done a deal like this through a gallery before also had a say in your openness to the idea. 

“A further five percent of the sale would go to the gallery, changing profit percentages to forty-five percent to us, and fifty-five percent to you,” she responded evenly. “Because _we_ came to _you_ for the work, if the buyer backs out, you pay nothing and the sculpture remains on the market, so to speak. We have a few people you may choose from, if you’d like to think on it.” 

“I trust your judgment,” you said after a moment, and she nodded with a faint smile. 

“In that case, is that what you’d care to do?” 

“It is,” you confirmed. 

“Is there someone you’d prefer to witness your signature who can be here this afternoon, or are you willing to accept another of the gallery staff to witness?” 

“Gallery staff is fine,” you replied with a small nod. “Not sure I’d trust myself to handle it in a… _mature_ manner,” you chuckled, rubbing the back of your neck.

In short order, you’d met who Maria picked to represent you for the sale of your sculpture (the idea still made your stomach twist), read and signed the contract (there was nothing in fine print that she hadn’t already informed you of), and asked about a few more particulars. Would the buyer want in-progress shots? Did their willingness to purchase your sculpture hinge on how you constructed the arm? Were they counting on other alterations? 

Maria had responded that she would ask, probably, and probably not, respectively. 

In general, though, you left the gallery an hour later feeling a bit more reassured about the entire thing. Still sad, to be certain, because you weren’t sure you were ready to part with him — it. Weren’t ready to part with it. But the estimate Maria had given you to begin with as an inflated price for the buyer had set you in high spirits. It could mostly go to savings, and you wouldn’t have to worry about rent for… several years, _easily_ , if you chose to stay where you were and had no other source of income. 

She’d warned you it would probably drop some, as it would be a bartering system in a sense, but it was still a _very_ respectably high number. Even in the city, a profit for you alone of almost 25 grand was enough to keep you more than comfortable — barring any expensive medical emergencies, of course. 

The estimate Maria gave you was still floating around your head when you went in to work the next morning. You weren’t floating on air, or on cloud nine, or anything — you would be parting with a piece of your _soul_ for _money,_ that wasn’t something you were happy about — but you also couldn’t stop thinking about it. Unfortunately, it also affected your ability to keep your head in your workspace.

You received a good-natured (light) smack to the back of the head from one of your co-workers for your troubles. 

It was difficult to be patient enough to wait for your next afternoon off, when you could go back to the studio and do some more work on the arm. It was going well, but just not well enough, and you hated the fact that you were getting more attached to him — it — the longer you worked on it. 

Which meant, of course, it was going to be even harder to say goodbye when the time came. 

But you tried your best on the arm. After all, your sculpture deserved nothing less. He — _it_ deserved better than the lot it had received in life, with a broken-off arm and a metal replacement. 

Odd to talk about your sculpture like it was alive, but… after all the time, work, and sweat you put into it, you could hardly think of the inanimate object as though it were anything but animate. Maybe it was just a part of your creative mind constantly working overtime. Maybe it was just the childlike amusement you still managed to find in your adult life. Or maybe it was sheer boredom in your free time, at its finest. 

Whatever the case, you were growing more and more dissatisfied with how the arm was coming out as time progressed. More than once you backed off for a day or two and then went back, with fresh eyes, and couldn’t see anything but the flaws. 

It wasn’t _good_ enough. 

You said as much to Steve when the two of you had gone for a beer or two the week after you met with Maria, and you were sitting not-so-quietly in the corner booth, alternating between complaining to him and stuffing loaded fries in your mouth. Every so often, the two of you would meet for drinks (you were normally the one who ended up inebriated, since it was almost impossible to get Steve drunk) and order a couple of appetizers you’d both munch on over the course of the evening, just trading stories and catching up as though you hadn’t seen each other in a month or two, instead of just a few days. The loaded fries at this corner bar were _delicious._

“So _then —_ you’re gonna love this — _THEN_ the welding torch sputters, right? So I think, ‘oh, okay, that’s not a good thing, it’s probably almost out of fuel, okay, that’s cool. I’ll just let them know and they can swap it out,’ and since I’m fucking paying to use their tools that’s on them, but it’s happened before it’s fine — but fucking _then_ it decides to work perfectly right after I hand it to them, so they hand it back like, ‘just a little longer, then, just let us know’ and _it starts sputtering again as soon as I try to work with it!_ ” 

Steve nodded sagely over his soda. You, for your part, were a couple of beers in and perfectly comfortable in that fact because you had Steve with you. Why he put up with you, you may never know, but you were thankful for it every day. 

“Okay, so — right? So this torch, I take it back and tell them — I’m a fucking tattletale, aren’t I? — I take it back and tell them what the little fucker did and he tries it, and it works just _fine!!_ Prejudiced little shit that it is, it works for him! So they set me up with a new one and I’m in good order but, fuck, just some tools, huh?” you finished, stuffing a few more fries in your mouth after swiping them through the cheese sauce that had come with the appetizer dish. 

You huffed, sinking down onto the surface of the table with your head propped up on a hand. “It’s just — everything’s against me trying to fix this statue, Steve. Even his _arm_ doesn’t want me to fix him, even the _tools_ I’m using for his arm don’t want me to fix him!” 

“Him?” Steve asked delicately, and you froze with a french fry halfway to your mouth, groaning and rubbing your face with your other hand. 

“ _It._ It doesn’t want me to fix it.” 

Steve had heard you moan earlier about how you kept referring to the sculpture as if it were animate, and you’d instructed him (in no uncertain terms) to correct you when you did. He did so, but it hurt. Was it _okay_ to be this attached to an inanimate object?

You dismissed the thought offhand. You were an artist, that made it okay. 

“Other than that, how’s it looking?” Steve questioned, and you shrugged with one shoulder, looking away. 

“It’s… okay. That’s probably the best I can say about it. I attached it yesterday. It’s all rough and rugged and even though I know that’s what I was counting on it doesn’t look _good_ enough, Steve. It’s not good enough. I can do better, I know I can—” 

“Don’t overthink this,” he interrupted. “Either leave it messy and a little scrappy, or change how it appears without changing the makeup.” 

“... So… what, spit shine and polish?” you scoffed. “That won’t look rugged _enough._ ” You paused, though, and Steve waited patiently with a raised eyebrow. Polishing and cleaning the scrap you were using once it was all welded… could actually work. It would soothe your ‘it doesn’t look good enough’ reflex, and it would still be rougher than the marble it was attached to. Speaking of which, you had ground down the rough edges of the joint and drilled a hole or two so you could attach the damn arm with rebar. It was working relatively well, seemed fairly stable. But you could always make it better. “You know… That… might actually work.” 

Steve nodded with a ‘there you go’ gesture, popping a cheese-covered french fry in his mouth. “So give it a shot. Shine a spare piece and hold it up, see if you like it.” 

You were way ahead of him. “Better yet, I’m just gonna do it. I’m gonna make that fucker mirror-bright, that’s gonna look killer. Maybe it can get more degraded closer to the fingertips, with the shiniest parts at the shoulder,” you added thoughtfully. 

“See, now you’ve got it. Stop wallowing in self-pity and keep moving forward. Remember what Nick kept telling us in sculpture?” 

“Shut the hell up and find a way to make it work,” you quoted ruefully. “Sometimes I need that kind of common sense. Like you. You’re good with common sense. I, however, am absolutely not, which is why we make such a great pair.”

“Flawless logic,” he approved with a chuckle, taking another drink. 

“I do try,” you preened, finishing off your drink in a gulp and the two remaining fries in an arguably less-than-coordinated motions. “Alright. Think I’m ready to go home, because they look like they’re setting up karaoke,” you said warily, nodding to the corner of the building normally reserved for live music. And tonight was, in fact, karaoke night. 

You tried to avoid it after 7 pm on Friday nights for that very reason. 

Once you’d paid your tab (and Steve’s this time, the two of you took turns buying when you did this), the two of you hit the street instead. Just in time, too, because the sound of a horrid, drunken rendition of ‘Baby Got Back’ followed the two of you out. After walking aimlessly for a few minutes, you suggested the park, and Steve agreed. Small as it was, it was still a tiny safe haven for a few trees, gardens, grass, children during the daytime, and couples during the evenings. 

This evening it was mostly deserted, which you were glad for as you and Steve settled into the swings of the old playground. You started a swing-off, seeing who could go the highest, but after a few minutes the two of you slowed into the repetitive motion. 

You couldn’t help peering upwards to see if you could see the stars, even knowing that you wouldn’t. It had been years since you’d seen the stars for real, not just photos. Light pollution could get depressing sometimes, but as cities went, yours wasn’t the worst. Not by a long shot. 

You did miss them sometimes, though. 

“Hey Steve?” Your voice was soft, almost hesitant. 

“Mm?” 

“You know I’m an atheist and all, but — well, you’re agnostic, but you’re also really like. Compassionate and open to experiences, so I’m hoping you’ll get this.” Your tongue ran away with you, but you were too far into your wonderings to stop now. “So you know I’m an atheist because science hasn’t given us any evidence of a deity or anything out there, but… Have you ever like… kind of _wished_ there was something out there that _granted_ wishes?”

“Isn’t this how _Labyrinth_ started?” 

“Shut up,” you snapped playfully, shoving his swing to the side and making him sway to keep his balance. “I mean it. I know you’re agnostic, raised Christian and all that, and I know, I know, you’ve told me it’s hard to be anything but agnostic in today’s world, and I get that. But I’m not talking a god, or a deity. I’m talking something that grants _wishes._ Not just three, not a genie, not something tricky like a djinn, or fairies or fae — but like… _something,_ you know? Have you ever wished that?” 

Steve was quiet for a few long minutes, but you didn’t worry. Sometimes, like you, Steve needed a few minutes to put his thoughts in order to give you a good answer. When he finally did respond, his voice was nearly as soft as yours had started out. 

“Sometimes,” he whispered. “Sometimes. … But then I realize that if there was something out there that granted wishes, it probably doesn’t like me. Otherwise my mom would still be alive.” 

You reached over, rubbing his back slowly. You couldn’t think of much to say to offer comfort, and Steve didn’t want pity. And besides, actions were so much louder than words to the two of you. You’d never met Steve’s mother, she’d passed before you knew him, and during one of the few times he’d gotten drunk around you he’d imparted that her name was Sarah. 

You’d never had the courage to ask, and you didn’t want him to pry open potentially painful memories just for the sake of your curiosity. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, “I didn’t mean for this to go that direction.”

“It’s okay.” His voice was still quiet, but you caught the gentle tone that was there when Steve meant what he said. “It still gets me sometimes. But to answer your question… It would be awfully convenient if there were something or someone out there to grant wishes. They would have to be temperamental as hell, but… it would be nice, sometimes, you know?” 

“Yeah, I get that,” you hummed, swinging slightly to the side to bump his shoulder with yours. “That leads to another question, though. Barring anything that changes the past, if you could wish for one thing, what would it be? Anything goes — again, without changing history.”

“Hm. Awfully restricting,” Steve observed with a playful smile. “Mm. I’d probably give myself a superpower. A _clever_ one though, not like flight or invisibility — like… manipulating probability.” 

“What kind of a superpower is that??” you asked incredulously. “That’s practically useless outside of a casino!” 

“Ah, but consider the possibilities. The probability that I’m holding a briefcase full of clean cash right now is 0%. What if I bumped that up to 100%? Or consider, the probability that in the next ten seconds, I’ll grow a tail. 0%? Let’s change that a bit.” 

“... Holy fuck, Steve, you’ve cracked it,” you whispered in awed realization. “That’s the best superpower ever!! God, you could fucking change reality with that!! I love it!! You’re fucking _brilliant!!_ ” 

“I do try,” he mocked, grinning at you. “Alright, fair’s fair. Your turn. Granted, you’re a little buzzed right now, so I don’t expect you to think through it too hard.” 

“Rude,” you muttered, sticking your tongue out at him before frowning in thought, staring up at the light-polluted sky again. “Hm. … That’s a tough one, if I’m not just copying your answer.” You’d wished for things, of course — like that you could be on time for that lecture when you were still in school, or that you could stop fucking losing things you needed (like hair ties, bobby pins, and your inspiration), or that you had a beautiful rare steak in front of you right now — but you’d never expected anything to come from those, like a reasonable, rational human being. 

What if it could get granted? What would you wish for then? 

It could easily turn into a _Monkey’s Paw_ situation, you realized, but dismissed it. This was purely for the sake of thinking through fictional situations. 

“Hmm.” It took you another long minute before something occurred to you, and your face lit up. “Got it!” 

“Do share.” 

“I wish… that my marble statue could be a real guy,” you said mischievously. “Of course, then I’d never leave my damn loft.”

“Spicy, I like it.” 

“Do you, now? Why don’t I wish for a cloning machine as well, and make a clone of him for you? That way we both get one to roll around in the sheets with,” you giggled.

Steve clicked his tongue and shook his head in reply. “Nope, you only get one wish here. Besides, what if he turned out to be straight?” 

“Well, he’s mine, not yours, so I’d be in good shape.” 

“In more ways than one,” he put in smoothly. “Now I think we probably need to get you home soon, because _I_ need to be home soon, because I have work tomorrow morning.” 

“Is _that_ why you weren’t drinking much??” you asked in mock outrage as he stood, offering you a hand. 

“Part of it. Also I know you can’t be trusted when you’re buzzed and alone and I’d rather you not feel compelled to do something scandalous and illegal.” 

“That was one time.” 

“The one time I let you get drunk without me.” 

“... Listen.”

* * *

The walk home was a brief one, or at least, it seemed that way. It was full of jokes and elbowing Steve (and unbalancing yourself), and at one point he kept you from tripping over an uneven edge in the pavement. You weren’t that drunk. Really. More giggly than anything. 

But Steve keeping you from knocking a front tooth out was still appreciated. 

He hadn’t been kidding about needing to head off because he had work in the morning, so once you’d successfully unlocked the door to your loft he gave you a two-fingered salute and headed back down the stairs. For your part, you were fairly coordinated in locking the door behind you, getting a glass of water, and running through your nighttime routine before bed. It was punctuated with you spinning dramatically on a heel, clutching your heart as though you’d had a great shock, and dropping backwards onto your mattress. 

Theatrical? You? Never. 

Some tossing and turning later, you were successfully burritoed up in your sheets with a glass of water by your bed (because after drinking, you normally woke up at three in the morning dying of thirst and this helped with that). 

Two minutes later you were out like a light, which was working wonders on your imagination as you quickly sank into dreamland. As per usual, your dreams were a little chaotic, only _sometimes_ following any kind of reason. Faces you knew often showed up, and at one point you and a friend from high school were flying a plane over a mountain to crash land it in the middle of a crowd of republicans —

You shot upright, heart in your throat at the sound still coming from the main room. That hadn’t been the sound of a window breaking, or a door. That was the sound of stone. That was the sound of _marble_ breaking. You thought that maybe, for the rest of your life, that would be the same sound your heart would make the next time it cracked.

Fearing the worst (but also knowing that you lived in the middle of the city), you grabbed the aluminum bat from the side of your bed, quietly creeping around the corner to peer into your main living area. 

Even with the light pollution, with your lights off, you couldn’t see a damn thing more than some crumbled white bits on the floor, and your heart sank as you hit the light switch, bat cocked over your shoulder and at the ready. It was an effort of will to not cringe at the sudden light that flooded the room, though the figure sitting in the middle of the marble pieces made no such effort, arms flying up to shield his face. A thin sheet of white dust lay over everything in his vicinity, and for a long moment, you were tempted to beat his head in just for the fact that your statue didn’t just have its other arm break off — it was _shattered._ Bits and pieces lay everywhere over your floor, in thousands of chunks and crumbs. 

There was no way you could fix _that_. 

The end of your bat slowly dropped as you sagged against the wall, a hand covering your mouth in an attempt to stifle a hard sob at the realization. The man sitting in the center looked up sharply at the sound, immediately wincing at the light in his eyes, but once you’d seen his face you couldn’t look away. 

He was familiar. Not familiar in the ‘you’ve seen him before’ way, although that was true, but familiar in the ‘you _made_ him’ way. 

He didn’t have dark hair before. 

His skin was actually flesh-toned instead of white and gray. 

And if you weren’t sober before, you were now.

One of his arms was shiny metal. Shinier than you’d made it before bringing it home and attaching it, and with threads of gold shot through the dividing sections. It moved and flexed just like real muscle, and the fantastical quality captivated you to the point that you almost failed to notice the man before you was, in fact, quite nude. Covered in marble dust, yes, but still very, very naked. 

Odd how you weren’t as afraid as you ought to be by a naked man appearing in front of your couch, destroying the work of art you’d spent so long on. _Or,_ a very small part of your mind whispered, _Did he come OUT of the statue?_

You refused to so much as entertain the thought. It wasn’t realistic, it was ridiculous. 

But then, how did he get here? A quick glance at your door told you it was still locked, with the deadbolt in place like you’d left it. You were on the third floor, so someone getting in through the window was implausible (besides which, none were broken). There were no holes in your ceiling. 

Which really left you with one (slightly ridiculous and very fantastical) answer, and you huffed, fingers tightening into fists for a moment before you slowly approached the man, who was watching you with careful eyes now that they’d adjusted to the overhead light. You extended a hand to help him up, which caused a small crease between his eyebrows. Was he not expecting that? Well, good to know you were still exceeding expectations even after grade school. 

He cautiously reached up, and you leaned back, pulling enough to serve as a counterweight so he could get to his feet and… well, he was a bit taller than you’d thought, and seemingly unaware of his state of dress — or lack thereof. 

“First things first,” you muttered darkly, trying very hard not to look anywhere but his face and arm ( _left_ arm, you noticed), “Let’s get you in the shower so you don’t track dust everywhere. Um. Before that, actually. Stay. You, stay,” you instructed with a frown. The dry look he gave you was answer enough, but he seemed to understand, so you left him (with frequent glances over your shoulder) to retrieve your phone from your bedside table. Your ‘recent calls’ list gave you Steve’s number — you didn’t particularly _care_ if he was asleep at three in the morning — and you dialed it, trapping the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you ushered the man in the direction of your bathroom. Absently, you hoped he liked honey- and ginger-scented hygiene products. 

For several long seconds, you worried that Steve might not answer. But by the fourth ring, there was a bleary greeting from the other end. 

_“... Hullo..?”_

“Hey, Stevie,” you said, turning on the water and brushing a hand under the spray to check the temperature, “You know how I never call at an ungodly hour unless it’s an emergency?” 

_“... What did you do.”_

“Ah, heh, yeah, about that—” Since the water had reached something tolerable, you reached over and grabbed the man’s wrist to pull him around you and into the shower. He did so with a mildly confused look at your phone, and you wasted little time in grabbing your bottle of body wash and shaking some out into your hand. “— So. Um. I need your help. Uh.” 

_“Spit it out, _____.”_ Steve’s voice was weary, not that you really blamed him. You wouldn’t be happy with a phone call at this hour either. 

“Um. I think my marble statue came to life. So now I have a naked man in my shower. And I’m trying to clean the dust off. I know he’s not a break-in case. I’ll explain when you get here. Because I need your help, and also a shirt, pair of boxers, and possibly sweatpants you don’t care about.” 

There was silence on the other end for a long minute, during which you focused on scrubbing the man’s… honestly very muscular chest and shoulders, until he seemed to get the hint and did the same to his legs, lower arms, and back where he could reach. “Steve?” 

_“... Sorry, I think I just heard you say your statue came to_ life??” 

“You did.” 

_“... I’ll… be over there in a few minutes, then.”_

“Fantastic. Walk careful. And don’t forget, clothes you don’t care about because you might not get them back.” 

_“Yeah. Sure.”_

With that, you hung up and tossed your phone to the rug, out of reach of the shower spray. It only now occurred to you that it might be a good idea to keep the metal of the man’s arm out of the water, but you dismissed it. That _really_ wasn’t a priority right now. And you could fix it, probably. (Although the left arm he _had_ seemed like much, much higher quality than what you could make, not to mention the realism and how it linked so beautifully and seamlessly to his deltoid.) 

Although the guy hadn’t spoken at all yet, or even so much as opened his mouth, he seemed to understand what you were saying. That, and you weren’t stupid enough to disregard the attentive gleam in his eyes. He was smart. So it didn’t take more than a second or two of charades to get him to lean down a little bit so you could scrub shampoo into his hair. Because really, that marble dust was _everywhere._

Around ten minutes later, you shepherded him out of the shower and reached up with a towel, rubbing it this way and that over his hair. It was almost long enough to touch his shoulders, so when you pulled the towel away you had to bite your tongue and resist the urge to giggle at the way it was sticking up. It was easily solved with finger-combing, though. 

When you gave him the towel to hold, he promptly wrapped it around his waist, and you were led to believe that maybe he wasn’t quite as oblivious to his nudity as you’d first thought. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a _little_ disappointed, though. 

No, you were more concerned about the remains of your statue, and had locked away the emotions attached to the matter for now. 

You weren’t sure you could think about it without melting down.

That was about the time there was a rapid knock on the loft door, and you motioned for the statue-man to stay as you went to your door. A quick glance through the peephole confirmed it to be Steve (who else would it be at this hour?) and you opened the door for him. 

“_____, I don’t know _what_ you’ve got in your head but…” 

Your much taller friend trailed off as he stared at the rubble littering the floor, and he nudged a piece with his boot, as though to confirm it was really just a piece and not a convincing crumpled up piece of paper. 

“Yeah uh. He’s… in the bathroom,” you said a little sheepishly, gesturing. “Just got him cleaned off.”

 _“He??”_

“Yeah, weren’t you listening? Oh, did you bring clothes? Or at least boxers and a shirt? _I_ don’t have anything that would fit him.” 

“... Yeah, here.” 

You accepted the articles of clothing with a grateful murmur, picking your way carefully over the shattered pieces of marble back to the bathroom and nudging the door open with your shoulder. “Hey, dude — uh. Okay, I don’t know if you even have a _name._ Whatever, here are some clothes.” 

The… somewhat bemused look the man was wearing shifted straight into a sharp-edged glare once he spotted Steve standing behind you, who was eyeing the stranger with much the same look. You patted him on the chest to get his attention and held out the clothes, which he took with a dubious expression. For all that this man hadn’t said a word, his eyes spoke volumes. Of course, when he took the clothes from you with both hands, his towel fell. 

“... Well. At least that part’s true to your statue too.” 

You turned to find Steve with his eyebrows raised, looking the man up and down, and snorted. “I’m telling you. Everything is dead-on. I _carved_ that nose and jaw, Steve. I’m more familiar with it — him? — than anyone and I don’t know how the hell this happened.” 

“Sold your soul, maybe?”

“Could be. Who knows? Certainly not me. It’s not like I have one left to sell, damn thing’s been busted for years anyway,” you grumbled, turning back to find that the man had pulled on the boxers and t-shirt, and was shaking out the sweatpants. Part of you was a little disappointed to see his muscles covered up. The majority of you was still running in circles like a headless three-legged chicken at Oktoberfest trying to figure out how this occurred. 

“So what are you going to do with him?” Steve questioned carefully, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. 

You leaned back against the sink in much the same way, studying your former statue’s features carefully. “I mean… I’m not gonna do anything to him, other than keep him.”

“ _Keep_ him?” 

“Do you have any better ideas? He obviously didn’t break in, and I didn’t let him in, which pretty much leaves only divine intervention.” 

“Be serious, ____.”

“I _am,_ Steve. I don’t know what else I can do. If I take him to the police they’ll find no evidence he broke in and drop him off somewhere, and if he _was_ my statue — which it’s looking like he was — he’s not gonna know heads or tails of anything, and I won’t do that to someone innocent.” 

“Can you support someone else?” 

“I’m gonna have to, won’t I?” you asked rhetorically, eyebrows pulling together. “... On that note, I’ll need your help to break the deadbolt on my door.” 

“Easier said than done, but why?” 

“Because I need to come up with some kind of cover story for the gallery as to why I don’t suddenly have a statue to sell anymore, and a robbery gone wrong seems like the safest choice, where they knocked it over by accident when looking for something else and fled,” you explained, rubbing your eyes. “It’s insured by the gallery against theft and accidental damage. I can’t say I just knocked it over, I’m not that clumsy and they know that. If I carved the damn thing, they’ll know that. Plus I’d have to pay for it, which I can’t.” 

“I guess that makes sense,” Steve muttered rebelliously, “But I still don’t like it. You don’t know anything _about_ this guy. You don’t even know his _name._ ” 

“I think it’s safe to assume he doesn’t have one,” you said dryly. “Which means I’m gonna have to give him one. Ugh. I’ve always been shit at names.” You turned your gaze back to the man, who met it squarely. Dark blue, unflinching eyes met you that you could swear were what you had in mind when you were carving his face. “... Well, he cost me a fucking buck and a half to carve, so… Buck, I guess. Or Buck _y_ , since nicknames sound better with an _ee_ sound at the end. It sounds better than Dollar, anyway. Or Money.” 

“Imaginative,” Steve snorted. “Why don’t you name him James or something common and be done with it?” 

“Because he’s not common, and I’m not going to pretend he is. Be as skeptical as you like, but I’m working with what I have here,” you huffed, reaching up to pat Steve’s cheek roughly. “And, with all the love in the world, if I trusted him with anyone else I’d be sending him off to give me a chance to figure things out.”

Steve muttered something unflattering under his breath about sculptors and their projects, but eased off, and you offered him a grateful smile before turning to Bucky, as his name now was. “Time for introductions,” you said, raising a hand to your chest. “I’m _____. _____,” you repeated with a little more emphasis, tapping your chest. Bucky wasn’t stupid, you weren’t going to treat him that way, but you wanted to be understandable. 

Judging by his eyes focusing on you immediately and the slight incline of his head, he understood. You put a hand on Steve’s shoulder next, saying, “Steve.” Another faint nod. Now the fun part. 

Lastly, you placed a hand flat on Bucky’s (very, very solid) chest and clearly said, “Bucky.” 

Which he also understood, though the twinkling of humor in his eyes was new. 

_What the hell am I getting myself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still chugging along here, outside of university work. Please let me know what you think, I honestly love opening AO3 to see feedback in my inbox! :)


	4. Look Who I Bought at a Yard Sale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with a silent new companion and Adult Problems(tm) takes a real toll on you, especially when you have work the next day. Glhf

“And you’re _sure_ nothing was taken?” 

You nodded at the officer, chewing on your bottom lip for effect. Steve had taken ‘Bucky’ to the park for a couple hours while you called in the ‘attempted burglary.’ (According to Steve there was a very definite difference between a robbery and a burglary.) Had to have something on paper or in the system in order to beg the gallery for a second chance, after all. “Nothing was taken, I haven’t got much to take, but… my statue was in a contract with a local gallery. I’ll have to call them about it.”

The officer’s partner was inspecting the marble bits, but since your loft was quite small it was easy for them to check that you were the only one there that morning when they’d arrived. 

“We’ll need a statement from you, soon as you can—both for your case and for your insurance. When can you come down to the station?” he questioned, and you rubbed your upper arms in apparent discomfort, glancing around your main living area. 

“Erm. I don’t work today, so… I mean, I guess today works—sorry, I’m still a little bit… shaken up, I guess.” 

The officer nodded in sympathy. “It’s not uncommon to feel that way after someone breaks into a home. If you want we can send someone by to keep an eye on things while you’re at the station.” 

“Yeah, that—that would be great,” you managed, with an uncertain smile. 

You never _enjoyed_ lying, but you were very, very good at it. Half of interacting with someone else was reading nonverbal cues, and most people didn’t realize they were doing it. You’d just learned to read and mimic them. Closed body language with a dropped head indicated uncertainty or fear. Being slightly jumpy added to the effect of being afraid. And it wasn’t very hard to pretend you were frazzled, which was where the almost-stuttering came in. 

“I can, uh… go by the home improvement store, and replace the deadbolt or something later,” you mumbled. “Oh—wait, I’ll need to have the doorframe fixed, won’t I?” 

“That would be a good start,” he said with a nod. “My partner can speak with your landlord if you’d like, and you can ride along with me. We’ll bring you back afterwards.” 

“I’d appreciate that,” you said gratefully. In truth, your doorframe _did_ need replaced now. Steve had done a spectacular job knocking the door in, though he’d been left with a sore foot. You were impressed it had only taken two tries. 

Then again, he _was_ basically a brick wall with blonde hair. 

In only a few minutes, the other officer had spoken with your landlord and you were on your way to the station. Your landlord had promised to replace the doorframe and door if necessary within the day, though given that he’d taken his time when the water heater had given out for a few days last winter you were a little skeptical. He was generally a decent man, though, and had given you a few days’ grace more than once when your paycheck was a little behind. 

While on your way to the station there wasn’t much conversation, which you were grateful for. It gave you a few more precious minutes to put together what you’d actually _told_ the officers had happened, and the most concise way to put it on paper later _and_ have all the facts match. That would be the trickiest part.

But, like with everything else, you figured you would jump off that bridge when you got to it, and take what came with the landing as best you could.

* * *

You stumbled through your (new) door two hours later, more drained than you thought you would be by writing out what ‘happened,’ and by meeting Maria Hill face-to-face again to break the news. She’d taken it well, though after confirming you were in good health her eyes had narrowed. She was a smart woman, you expected her analytical mind to look at the possible ramifications. You’d pled exhaustion and given her the business card of the officer who’d been handling your case. 

You’d begged her, all but on your knees, for another shot at this, and she’d hesitated. You expected that, too. The conversation had ended with you asking her to ‘just keep you in the loop’ before heading back home, collapsing onto your couch, and texting Steve a harmless message that would translate (to him) to, ‘it’s safe to bring him back over.’ 

That was why you were on your loveseat now, leaning against Steve’s shoulder and eyeing Bucky where he sat on the couch. He still wore the t-shirt and track pants that Steve had brought over earlier that morning, and they fit him surprisingly well. Or not so surprisingly, since you’d based the carving on Steve’s anatomy and structure in the first place. 

It helped that they were both very attractive. 

At the moment, though, Bucky was looking between you and Steve uncertainly. Steve had an arm resting along the back of the couch behind you. From anyone else it would be a “move”—with Steve, it was just… Steve. Bucky was keeping his hands and his feet to himself, but didn’t seem quite as guarded as he had been earlier. Reasonable, really. After spending a couple hours with Steve, you hoped (despite the apparent language barrier) that they might be able to find some common ground. 

“... So. We figured out that he likes hot dogs.” 

You peered up at Steve with a frown, wordlessly requesting an explanation. 

Steve rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand. “We stopped by that cart that’s down West Ridge—you know, between the shoe place and the park?—and I got us a couple, mostly to keep him occupied.” Steve’s voice was free of inflection. “I ended up buying him seven.” 

“ _Seven??”_ you repeated incredulously, looking back over to Bucky. “He ate seven hot dogs? Right in a row?” 

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “The only person I’ve ever seen do that was Tony, after he accidentally fasted for two days while working on a sculpture project for finals our senior year. You remember?”

“I’d completely forgotten about that, to be honest. A welded metal allosaurus that pissed espresso once you put water and espresso grounds in its back. Genius.” 

“The professor didn’t seem to think so.” 

“Well, yeah, he was biased against coffee since students always showed up late to his class with some from the place on the edge of campus,” you explained. “I heard him bitching about it to Mike the Painting Teacher one time.” 

“Why did everyone call him that anyway? His name was Erik, wasn’t it? Or was that the chem teacher?”

“I don’t even remember what his name actually is. I called him Mike the Painting Teacher in freshman year and he never corrected me. The other freshmen picked it up.” 

“So that _was_ your fault.” 

“Yup. At least he wasn’t Mr. Coulson, you remember the art administration teacher? Phil Coulson? I got the coffee shop to call their tip jar Phil the Tip Jar—Phil, fill, you get it? Fill the tip jar?—named for Phil Coulson because he was there almost every day. Those were the days. … But that still doesn’t help with what we’re supposed to do with _him_ ,” you hummed, leaning a little more against Steve. “... I feel like I’m missing something painfully obvious here. You ever get that feeling?”

“Whenever _I_ get that feeling I double check my work schedule for the day.”

“Har har,” you grumbled. “I’m just… not sure what to do with him. Because I need to work, but I can’t just leave him here for the day because I don’t know if he knows how some of this stuff works--”

“What makes you say that?”

“Didn’t get the hang of the shower until I showed him. So I can’t just leave him here, he doesn’t have ID or a passport or literally anything saying he is who he says he is—and he hasn’t said a word yet, by the way, so I don’t know if he knows English, and if he does he’s not deaf because he listens—I can’t turn him loose on the street because I’m not sure he could blend in and he might just get hit by a car if he’s like a husky because they have _zero_ street smarts and--” 

“____, easy, take it easy,” Steve comforted, patting your shoulder. “One thing at a time.”

“One _disaster_ at a time.” 

“Come on. We’ll figure this out.” 

“First place to check is the internet. See if this kind of thing happened before without going down any rabbit holes, ideally,” you muttered, pushing yourself up from the couch to fetch your laptop. “I can see it now. ‘Hey Reddit, is it _normal_ if my marble statue turns into a real live human being?’ People would think I’m trolling them.” 

“Well, think of it this way,” Steve reasoned when you sat back down, “You remember last night at the park? Your wish came true.” 

You froze for a moment while you digested that, fingers frozen over your keyboard. Steve was absolutely right, and after an instant of disbelief you felt a twinge of guilt. Out of any wish that could come true that the two of you had made, it was your ridiculous idea that you never expected to actually amount to anything. Then your subconscious smacked your conscience with a shovel and you gave your head a quick shake. 

“That honestly hadn’t occurred to me,” you said truthfully. “I’m still gonna look it up, though. And then see if there’s an ongoing count of the number of souls Baphomet or Beelzebub owns, see if mine’s in their number. See what kind of debt I gotta pay to make this work out alright.”

“Sounds like a plan. I need to head back, or crash, or something,” Steve yawned, getting to his feet.

“Oh shit, right, I forgot I woke you up at the witching hour,” you groaned, smacking your forehead. “Sorry, Steve.” 

“It’s all good, just let’s not make a habit of it.” 

“Next time I think I’m gonna wish for a statue to come to life, you’ll be the first one I call.” 

“Brat,” he said affectionately, ruffling your hair. “I’ll see you later. Text me if something blows up—” 

“Or if the building is on fire, or if Cthulu arrives to visit his cousins, Cthele and Ctholo,” you finished, grinning. “I remember. See you later, Steve.” 

“See you, ____.” 

You glanced back to your computer screen when you heard the door close behind him, finishing typing in your search before getting up to lock and deadbolt said door since Steve had left. When you turned around again, you found Bucky’s intent eyes on you. You raised an eyebrow at him. 

“I’m not going to ask you if you’re hungry. You, your stomach, and I _all_ know that you ate _seven_ hot dogs. Which in my social circles is almost unheard of, but that’s not particularly relevant.” You crossed your arms thoughtfully, shifting your weight to one leg while you studied him. “... I’m still not sure what to do with you,” you admitted after a moment. You weren’t quite sure why you were talking to him. He didn’t even talk back. Then again, it wasn’t as if he was still a statue—though by how unmoving he was now, someone else might’ve been fooled. 

“I really can’t just take you to work with me. It’s not like where I work has a ‘bring your child to work day.’ But I also can’t leave you here unattended, because I’m not sure what you’re familiar with in here, and I don’t know yet if I can trust you all on your own. Although… If I got actual food on my lunch break, you _could_ sit in the coffeeshop and read a book all day, or something,” you mused, before something occurred to you. “Aw shit. That’s not going to work if you don’t understand English. I don’t even know where I would find non-English books around here, I’ve never tried looking.” 

Huffing, you sank down on your couch again. “... But if I’m gonna be able to keep an eye on you all day, I’ve got to come up with something you can do. I feel like you’re like a puppy. As soon as I turn my back you’ll have gotten into something or other. And not all of it’s going to be good for you.” 

Then another idea occurred to you. _Computer text translation, of course!!_ You could figure out which language he knew, based on what he reacted to. You rapidly typed in the translation URL for a search engine, and picked up the Spanish translator. After all, it was the second most common language in the United States. Pronunciation had never been your strong suit, but hopefully you could make yourself understood in other languages. 

“Erm… _¿hablas español?_ ” you tried. 

Bucky blinked, but other than that didn’t respond. Okay, next one. Italian was close enough to Spanish, right? 

“ _Hablas Italiano?_ ” 

He still didn’t answer, but oh, you _knew_ that look when his eyes sharpened slightly. He recognized Italian. 

Quickly, you typed in an alternate phrase before speaking it out loud to the best of your ability. 

_“Mi capisci?”_ Or, _‘do you understand me?’_

Still no response. 

You withheld a sigh, switching to the next most common language in your city, fairly certain you were butchering the French even as you went. 

_“Est-ce que tu parles fra—français?”_

Bucky had the same reaction as when you tried Spanish, which was to say none at all. This time you did sigh, rubbing one temple as you selected the next prominent language. _This might take a while, especially if we’re going one by one._ But it might be worth it just to get some fuckin’ _answers._

However, your thoughts crashed to a halt when Bucky tentatively opened his mouth. 

_“Почему вы спрашиваете, на каких языках я знаю?”_

The language he vocalized was… guttural, but with absolutely no hesitation, meaning he was fluent. It sounded Slavic to you, and you quickly typed in a generic question for the translator to output as Russian. Of the Slavic languages you knew of, this was the most likely candidate as a higher number of people actually spoke it. 

_“а ты говоришь по русски?”_ you tried, following the phonetic spelling below the translation. By his little half-hidden smile, you’d done terribly, but you’d also managed to identify the correct language he spoke if his face was any indication. 

Kicking your head into gear, you swiftly typed in another line that translated to asking for his name and spun the laptop around to face him. His eyes skimmed along the unfamiliar letters, then he snorted in amusement. The upturned corners of his eyes were a dead giveaway for amusement. For all that he didn’t speak, you’d observed that expressions said so much more. 

“Bucky,” he told you, with the equivalent of a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Oh, you think you’re _funny_ ,” you grumbled, typing away after turning your laptop back around. “I meant your _actual_ name, not the nickname we gave you. Friggin’ _jerk._ ” 

He made a low, rumbling sound that came from deep in his throat, and you stared at his chest for a moment before realizing it was a chuckle. Odd that throughout all this, you hadn’t heard him laugh until now. And this wasn’t even a true _laugh_ —it was just a chuckle. The equivalent for him of you snorting or exhaling harder than normal to indicate amusement. 

“Right. Let’s see if you’re still laughing in a hot second.” Your grumpiness was all for show, of course. You weren’t _actually_ tweaked, not with how easy access to translation technology was for your generation. 

You’d typed a small paragraph (mostly comprised of questions) when you spun your laptop around to face Bucky again, and his eyes narrowed as he skimmed the letters of the translation that were so unfamiliar to you. Things like, ‘where did you come from,’ ‘what’s your _actual_ name,’ and ‘how did you get inside my statue?’ You know, just sleepover chit-chat things. 

He opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again. You were starting to think he didn’t know a word of English, but to contrast, you didn’t know a word of Russian, save for ‘hello,’ ‘goodbye,’ ‘no,’ ‘where’s the bathroom,’ and ‘I like borscht very much’ (you didn’t, but you knew how to say that you did. A relative of yours had become enamored with the idea of being able to cook dishes from all over the world and borscht had featured prominently for several weeks). It didn’t look like borscht would have much of a chance of changing the drawn expression on Bucky’s face now, though. 

Assuming you knew anything about reading expressions—and after several years of doing so, you liked to think you _did_ —you thought that Bucky looked… really conflicted, among other things. Maybe calculation and concentration. There might have been a little bit of suspicion in there, too, which didn’t make sense. 

After a long minute with no response, you typed something else into the translation box, something you now hoped you were prepared to hear an answer to: 

_“Where did you come from?”_

Some of the clashing emotions on Bucky’s face eased, only to be replaced with a screwed-up expression of intense thought. He spoke Russian like it was his mother tongue, so you thought there was a decent chance it actually _was_. 

But you’d been wrong about things before. 

You rubbed your eyes and exhaled slowly, closing your laptop and setting it down as you stood. “Maybe this is a ‘not yet’ thing,” you mumbled to yourself, stepping over the coffee table and stretching. You shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “Normally I’d propose dinner. But you already ate. I, however, have not, so I’m gonna order a pizza because I need to go grocery shopping. Flawless logic.” 

The entire time, Bucky watched you. He vaguely reminded you of a retired military dog, in a way. Never mind the fact that you’d only ever met two, it was still an apt comparison. Even as you stepped around your loft getting your phone, your wallet, and the takeaway menu from the pizza place in question, you felt his eyes on you without pause. 

He was attentive, knew _Russian_ , probably recognized Italian, and wasn’t familiar with most of the technology he’d been shown so far. 

And he came out of your _sculpture._

What kind of stories had events like this? And what had the people in those stories done about it? 

Furthermore, why did you equate your life to a story? 

“Ugh. No. No nope nada. I am _not_ getting an existential crisis tonight, I _do not_ need that shit,” you muttered darkly, calling the pizza place and placing a brief order. It wasn’t enough to get your mind off of all the damn _questions_ you had, though. Unfortunate, really, since you wanted a distraction from that. 

“Imagine if you were a secret agent or a spy,” you mused, mostly for the sake of entertaining your imagination. If you couldn’t distract yourself from it, you could fuel it _as_ a distraction. Genius! “You’re undercover, right? And you cut my statue in half, hollowed it out, climbed inside, and had someone else seal it back so well that not even _I_ would notice it had been sawn in half the long way.” 

_“творческий,”_ he said dryly. And like you would when dogs responded to your speech, you gave him an obnoxiously exaggerated wink before continuing.

“See, I knew it! Super secret Russian spy who escaped the Cold War and warped here through a portal that just _happened_ to open up in the center of my statue.” 

“ _я могу тебя понять._ ” 

“Yup, called it!” you announced victoriously. “That would explain why you have no idea what my laptop is. Though to be fair, you’re handling it better than I would have expected. Not sure.” 

“ _Я знаю что такое ноутбук…_ ” 

“I know, right? It’s an _astronomical_ chance but still one of the coolest things.” 

“ _Я впечатлен вами и вашей логикой. или его отсутствие._ ” 

“So _that’s_ how the machine works! We should really get you to NASA. They’d be fascinated to hear about the time and place portal machine. Maybe you could help them create it!” 

The dry look that Bucky gave you after that had you giggling, and you dropped down on your couch again next to him. “Yeah, I know. It’s ridiculous. But fun to think about. I mean, weirder shit has happened on Earth before, this honestly wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve ever heard of.” 

Leaning forward to peer past him, you reached over to bring Bucky’s left arm around so you could look at it again. It was distinctly _odd._ You’d _seen_ work this fine, but not in person, and not that _flexed_ like this did. You couldn’t even identify the metal. Normally you would have said steel, but this was darker and didn’t sound like the steel you were familiar with when you tapped your knuckles against it. The fine gold-colored seams between the pieces of metal had to be an aesthetic decision, you were sure, but it was a damn nice one. 

“Where did you get this..?” you wondered, admiring the way his forearm tapered towards his wrist. This craftsmanship was _incredible_ and you’d happily sell the rights to your firstborn child to learn the secret of this arm, _and_ the man it was connected to—and you had the uncomfortable feeling that the answer was _right there_ and you were somehow managing to overlook it.

Looking up, you realized Bucky had been staring at you for the few minutes you’d been inspecting his left arm, and giving him a sheepish grin you released his arm. 

“Sorry,” you said, “Just. Never seen work like that in person. Don’t suppose you know what it’s made out of?” 

“ _Вибраниум, я думаю._ ” 

“I guess that was too much to hope,” you sighed. “And I can’t even have you type responses in on that damn translator because I’ve only got an English keyboard.” 

“ _Ты красивая._ ” 

“Yeah, me too, buddy. Me too.” 

After seeing the way the corners of his mouth curled up after your response, you again had the feeling you’d missed something important. But, like with almost everything else in your life, you figured it would come to you and let it go, getting your laundry basket and starting to sort loads—you needed to get that started tomorrow after work. 

“I guess I’ll be taking you to work with me tomorrow… Should probably find you some more clothes after that,” you added as an afterthought. “Because I can’t keep asking Steve for his because I swear he hasn’t got that many to begin with. So, mall.” 

You heard a hum of what you assumed to be agreement from Bucky, and you nodded to yourself. “Okay, that’s a plan for tomorrow. Work, then shopping. With money I probably have. We’ll find out.” 

Bedtime was an anticlimactic affair; since Bucky had the options of sleeping on the other side of your bed or taking the couch, you brought him to both, gestured to each, and then to him— _which do you want?_ Only one side of your bed showed signs of having been slept in, and Bucky hesitated before pointing to the couch. Your response had been to pull a spare blanket off the side of your bed and the other pillow you weren’t using (normally Steve used it when he was here but he wasn’t here tonight so he wouldn’t miss the damn thing), and pat Bucky’s shoulder on your way by to bid him goodnight. 

Despite the stress (or perhaps because of it), you slept pretty solidly, and woke up in the same position you fell asleep in. Your alarm still went off far too early for comfort, and you dragged Bucky with you when you left in your uniform, still yawning and dragging your feet. 

You would turn out to work overtime—WAY overtime; all because one of your coworkers didn't come in for their damn shift. You figured it was urgent, because they were normally pretty punctual, and you _did_ get overtime pay, but it still meant you worked almost fourteen hours. (You'd done it before, and you hated it _intensely_.) 

Bucky, for his part, was sitting in the corner of the shop all day—you'd come sit with him on your break, and Steve came to occupy him for an hour on _his_ lunch break—and when you finally stepped out from behind the counter, dead on your feet, you must have looked like a zombie, because Bucky's eyebrows slowly rose when he looked at your face. 

“Hey.” After almost fourteen hours of “hi what can I get you” and calling out orders (often two or three times because a lot of people just didn’t _listen_ ), your voice was quite rough. A lot like his, actually, but his sounded nicer. Well. Not _nice,_ but pleasant. You liked his voice. _Yours_ on the other hand felt like trying to play Beethoven’s Fifth through a kazoo filled with sand. 

He grunted in response. It wasn’t really a grunt, it was more of a loud hum so you could hear him over the sounds of chairs being put up on tables so the floor could be swept. It worked, because you _did_ hear him acknowledge you. You ran a hand through your hair and jerked your chin at the door. “C’mon, let’s go. We could both use dinner.” 

Even though he didn’t understand your words, you had figured out very early on that Bucky was quite intuitive, and attentive. Regardless of _what_ you said, he had a tendency to get your meaning, so it didn’t surprise you in the least when he stood, neatly placed the chair he’d been sitting in on the table in the same manner as the rest now were, and followed you out. 

After a few minutes of walking, it came to your attention that Bucky didn’t _follow_ you the way you’d anticipated. He walked next to you, like Steve did. And while you didn’t _mind_ , it did make you a little bit curious about how their personalities would play off each other when you weren’t around. Did Steve come to the same conclusions as you had about Bucky understanding you through tone and inflection alone? How similar were they? (Not how similar they were physically, you knew that answer _quite_ well, thank you very much.) Would they get along if they could speak the same language? What if one of you learned—

Wait a minute. 

Natasha. Nat knew Russian, she’d taken Russian I through Russian IV in college, it was one of her minors. Seeing as she had moved here _from_ Russia when she was thirteen or something, she was definitely fluent and it was an easy A for her. She would be able to translate, assuming she had the time to. (She worked freelance doing graphic design, it was really a crapshoot as to whether she had time on her hands or not.) 

Immediately, you whipped out your phone, scrolling for a little bit to find Natasha’s number before opening up a text to her. 

_hey. long story short, I met a guy and he only speaks russian. kind of need your help to translate because he doesn’t speak a lick of english and. there’s just a lot of shit I need an answer to. you free anytime this week?_

You reread it, grimacing as the realization hit you that she would definitely consider “I met a guy” to translate to “I want to bang him” (which, while partially true, was not the point of this message). Then again, her first response to “I’m having guy troubles” is “Kill him,” so maybe she’s really not the best person to ask. But she _is_ the only person you know who’s fluent in both English and Russian, so you need her help because unfortunately it’s difficult to find a translator online where you can talk to it and it translates the words for you. That, or it’s expensive. 

Nat’s reply came quickly. 

_Sounds like guy troubles to me._

You hid a smile, typing a brief message back and just _knowing_ where Nat was going with this. 

_it IS guy troubles technically?_

_Kill him_

You snorted, unable to help yourself. Natasha wasn’t always predictable, but this was one of her favorite jokes, so to speak. 

You weren’t always certain she was joking though. 

_not really an option, I’ll explain later. you have time to meet this week?_

A questioning rumble came from the broad-shouldered figure beside you, and you sheepishly looked up at Bucky. From here, his jawline looked _especially_ nice and you couldn’t help a wave of pride—you’d _carved_ that. He was entirely _your_ work and effort. You _made_ him. 

And he was still waiting for a response, even though he couldn’t understand you. 

“I was messaging a friend of mine,” you explained, not sure why you were bothering to speak instead of charades or just _showing_ him. “She’s fluent in Russian. And I just remembered that, she could help me translate… well. You. Or maybe some instruction guide on how the hell _this_ happened,” you huffed, not really _upset_ but decently frustrated. And hungry. And exhausted. 

Right. You were going to find dinner for the two of you. Fuck, you were just too damn tired to cook, but you also didn’t really have the money right this second to eat out (well, not after paying Steve to buy some men’s clothing from the store he worked at for the employee discount). 

You sighed. “Looks like it’s pasta and some form of protein tonight, then, because that doesn’t take forever to make. … I should really invest in a crockpot or something.” 

The coughing chuckle Bucky made had you sending a suspicious look up at him, because that was an awfully perfectly-timed chuckle. “Do I sound funny to you or something?” you snapped playfully, swaying over the course of one step so you knocked shoulders with him. He moved with you, so you didn’t actually push him off balance but you still got the satisfaction of knowing you’d made your point. If he was humoring you, he was doing a great job of it, and honestly you appreciated it. 

He responded to you then in a low stream of Russian, which obviously you understood _none_ of but you were willing to play ball. “I see, I see. How’d you escape from _that_ kind of trap?” 

“ _Я оделась как женщина и дурачила охранников, чтобы пропустить меня через ворота._ ” 

“That must have been absolutely _harrowing_. Can’t imagine how much it must’ve hurt—how long did it take you to find the keys?” 

“ _не было ключей. они просто тупые и пили водку._ ” 

“I see, I see.” You nodded sagely, though it was hard to resist the smile playing around the corners of your mouth. From what you could see by the streetlights, Bucky was having an equally difficult time. “How long were you locked in the attic before they realized you were there? And how long did they wait to set it on fire?” 

“ _Я был в здании, которое когда-то было в огне. это было не весело,_ ” he responded without hesitation. “ _В конце концов, мне пришлось прыгнуть на крышу другого здания. Я сделал это, но я сломал запястье._ ” Once again, you decided that you really liked how Bucky’s voice sounded. It was rumbly without sounding too much like a bass guitar plugged into an oversensitive amp. 

“Yikes. But at least you were able to deactivate the bomb in time. Like, imagine how nasty that could have gotten if it went off!” you exclaimed, gesturing wildly to illustrate your point and nearly smacking him in the chest. Close proximity was made more difficult by the fact that you were both ascending the stairs to your loft and the stairwell really wasn’t wide enough for two people in the first place. It had never stopped you before, and it wasn’t going to now. “I’m talking shrapnel in the groin kind of bad. Like. _Imagine._ Or don’t imagine, actually, that sounds super painful. But you get the idea. It could have been _that_ kind of bad if the bomb had gone off. Good thing you were there to save the day! A real-life hero.” 

Busy as you were with digging your keys out of your coat pocket, you missed the little bit lost, little bit troubled look that Bucky gave you.

“ _Я никогда не был героем раньше._ ”

“Right? First time for everything,” you remarked, nudging the door to your loft open. It still stuck a little, probably because it was still new. “Now. We need to think about dinner. Have you ever cooked before?” 

“ _Да много раз._ ”

“Didn’t think so. Well, in that case you can sit the hell down and _I’ll_ do all the hard work around here. _I am the backbone of this family._ Well, until the other day I lived alone, but you get the idea. Or not. You don’t speak English so you probably have no idea what I’m talking about. But hey, I can keep a running conversation going and _damn_ that’s important in life.” You just kept going, because you were _just_ tired enough that shame was not an emotion you were familiar with. 

Bucky actually did as you instructed, though you were certain it was coincidence, and took a seat on the couch—only at an angle so he could still face you. You didn’t mind. 

“So, come here much?” you rattled off, filling a pot with water and setting it on the stove to boil. “I mean, I do, but of course I would, it’s my apartment.” You could feel his eyes on you as you worked, with one arm slung over the back of the couch so he could watch you. It happened to be his artificial one—would it be insensitive to say a prosthetic?—and you couldn’t help admiring it over your shoulder as it glinted in the light. 

“... Where did you come from?” you murmured in wonder, pulling some uncooked pasta out of the cabinet. “And what being do I now owe my soul to..? I mean… you’re _literally_ physically perfect. I dunno much about your personality yet,” you continued, pulling a jar of pasta sauce out of the fridge, alongside a container of chicken you’d cooked a couple days ago so you could mix it in. “I _carved_ you. You are literally perfect to me. Who made this happen..?” 

Half of your speech was mumbling to yourself, even though you were well aware of the attention Bucky was paying you. It was a quandary that you wanted to solve, because… for every unprompted gift there was some kind of drawback. Some kind of catch. It might not last, or you might have actually signed away half of your life by mistake, or _something._ You didn’t know, and that was slightly terrifying. Plus you had someone else to support with no passport, no social security card, no identification whatsoever. No way to identify himself, except by the nickname you’d given him. 

And there had to be a catch somewhere, one you weren’t aware of yet. It might come to you in time, or it might not—there was no way to be sure—but you decided as you emptied the box of pasta into the boiling water that if you got more time with Bucky, you wouldn’t really mind. He was quiet and comfortable company, and you figured that you could enjoy it while it lasted. 

There was really no harm in it. It was like jumping off a bridge, but you got to enjoy the ride on the way down. Everything rested on the landing. And just maybe, if you worked hard enough, you’d be able to fly before you hit the water. 

Your phone buzzed, jolting you out of your thoughts. It was a message from Nat. 

_I can make time. Let’s meet Thursday._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like everyone else I know, I've been reduced to working on online classes recently and I've been struggling with my senior project. In the midst of all this, I'm focusing on some nice angst to put down in a document, and then upload for a variety of total strangers to read. :) Hope you enjoyed!  
> Also, goes without saying, but if you're a native speaker for Russian and you spot some egregious errors in the Russian I've used a translator for here, PLEASE let me know so I can fix it!


	5. I'm Not Legally Required to Do This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to get some answers.

So it turned out that the coworker whose shift you’d covered had food poisoning. It hadn’t been pretty, they’d ended up curled on the floor of their bathroom in a blanket for six hours or so, and fell asleep after that while still  _ on _ the floor. They couldn’t call in because they were a little busy, so to speak, and they didn’t have their phone in the bathroom with them. Which, you know, you could forgive because food poisoning is a Bad Time™. In exchange, you got them to cover the last half of one of  _ your _ shifts on Thursday so you could go meet Natasha. You invited Steve because he  _ was _ kind of in on the whole story and maybe this way you both could get some straight answers. Or  _ any _ answers, really. 

It was still fucking  _ freezing _ outside, but you’d arranged to meet Natasha in the park before going somewhere warmer, ideally. Not the library, because there’d be a fair amount of chatter going on, but a restaurant invited the premise of ordering food which you didn’t really have the budget for right now. Coffeeshop was also out—you worked in one most days, you were kind of sick of yours—so your options were limited without going to someone’s apartment. That was how you ended up in the bakery, with Natasha next to you and Bucky across the table and Steve on your left. All of you had coffee and some sort of muffin or pastry. Bakery goods were cheaper than restaurant food orders, but there was enough sound going on that you wouldn’t be overheard. Just in case. You were a little bit paranoid about this whole mess, even after getting enough sleep. Bucky, for his part, looked a little bit suspicious, and kept glancing between you, Steve, and Natasha. You understood that—new people were scary. 

Well, plus, you hadn’t  _ told _ Bucky that you were going to meet Nat. It wasn’t as if he’d understand you, you’d mostly rattled on about bakeries and what kind of stuff you liked to get there, and anything that really popped into your head, and honestly you’d just kind of forgotten.

“So.” 

Nat immediately drew attention to herself with the quiet address of the table, and that was probably her intent, you realized. She had her hands folded on the table in front of her and her hair and lipstick were immaculate, as always. Right now she felt more like a boss and less like a friend—but that was just how Nat handled professional matters. You admired her for it more often than not. 

“Who wants to explain first? And why’s Steve here?”

Steve looked slightly scandalized, and Nat rolled her eyes with a smirk. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, munchkin, but anyone could see there’s more going on here than ‘I met a guy and we can’t understand each other.’ So you’re involved somehow. You’re  _ always _ involved in her shenanigans. Now, what’s going on?” 

With your attention on Nat, you missed the flash of Bucky’s eyes. “I… honestly am not sure. I’ve given him a nickname because he hasn’t told me his—not that I could understand him if he did—and… it’s complicated.”

“I can see that.” Switching her gaze from you to Bucky, Natasha started talking to him in Russian. The sounds were the same to you, but her voice was a little higher, and with a lighter tone to them. It sounded friendly, which was perfect. 

Not to Bucky, apparently. His mouth thinned into a flat line, and he crossed his arms over his chest. It seemed a defensive position to you, which kind of fit with what you knew of him so far. 

Nat raised a slim eyebrow, glancing back to you for a moment before trying again. This time her voice was just a little bit harder, the same tone she adopted when she was trying to talk someone into something and it wasn’t particularly amicable. Almost intimidating, now that you thought about it. You looked between Bucky and Nat, and the former hadn’t budged an inch. 

Sighing quietly, you leaned your shoulder against Steve’s. Your heart sank as you analyzed his position again. He was  _ completely _ closed off. You didn’t know how to ask Bucky to  _ please _ talk with Natasha, because she was the only person here who would understand him and he didn’t understand  _ you _ and… god, this was such a mess. Obviously you couldn’t  _ force _ him to talk to her, but… some answers would be nice. 

After another pointed silence, Natasha scowled, firing off a rapid stream of Russian that didn’t sound so friendly anymore, and the way her lips and tongue were forming around the syllables looked downright predatory. Her hands resting apart on the table as she leaned forward helped complete the effect. If you didn’t know better, it almost sounded like a threat—it didn’t sound nice enough for her to be berating him. 

Bucky hesitated, and that alone kept you from stopping Nat from getting any meaner. Not that she was being  _ mean _ right now, you didn’t know, but you also didn’t want Bucky to be  _ too _ uncomfortable. You wanted to protect him. 

But you also really needed some answers. 

Finally, he grudgingly mumbled his way through a sentence, and it was impossible to miss the way Nat’s eyebrows rose so quickly, before settling into a frown again. She sharply gestured to you and Steve, and the next thing she said sounded less angry, but more like an order. You didn’t know of many things that could throw Nat off her game, and whatever Bucky had told her was doing that quite effectively. 

After a moment of silence (during which Bucky  _ really _ looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else), she repeated the order with a little more emphasis. He shifted in his chair, but said nothing, and Natasha lost her fragile patience with him. 

Whipping her head around to face you and Steve, she snapped, “He speaks English just  _ fine. _ ” 

The silence that enveloped the table for almost a minute afterwards was overwhelming, and you turned a confused face to Bucky. He wasn’t looking at either you or Steve, or Natasha for that matter. His eyes were fixed on the surface of the table. For your part, you were a little bit hurt. Also concerned (what had you said to him that he could repeat?), but mostly hurt. If he could speak English, why wouldn’t he talk to you? What was he afraid of? 

“Bucky..?” you questioned softly. You didn’t know exactly why this was hurting. Did he not trust you enough to talk to you? A thousand questions were whirling through your mind— _ why _ didn’t he tell you,  _ why _ didn’t he try to talk to you in English at all,  _ why _ was he in your statue,  _ why why why. _ And struggling to refocus, you decided on a question that was probably a good start. “... Will you please talk to me?” 

His eyes flicked to you without his lowered head budging, and the intensity of the blue you saw there made you falter. There was more going on here than he would say— _ if _ he would say anything in the first place. 

In your peripheral vision, you saw Steve shift and then felt him rubbing your back. It was a comforting gesture, but right now the urgency of all of the questions you had seemed to double. It was difficult to keep your mouth shut, and wait. You could be patient, if you needed to. It didn’t stop the sting of the realization that Bucky  _ could _ speak English with you and just  _ hadn’t. _ You’d been under the impression he trusted you. 

So much for that, you guessed, cutting off your emotional ties to those issues with a small head shake. You would deal with it later. You gave yourself one more moment to take a deep breath, then you looked at Bucky squarely. 

“Bucky, I need you to tell me how you ended up in my statue,” you told him firmly. See, you could be assertive, if you needed to—but you hated it. Half the time it made you feel like an ass, and now was no different. 

Natasha was savvy enough in social situations to remain quiet, and not interrupt anything. But you could feel her eyes on you and on Bucky. This far in, she probably deserved to know, but you’d get to that part in a bit. For now, the tension roiling around the table was raising hairs on the back of your neck, and out of view you were pinching your thigh to try and keep yourself from tearing up out of frustration. Sometimes it worked. 

You held his gaze until he huffed, turning his head away. But the way his jaw was shifting, it looked like he was thinking about his words rather than locking down and refusing to answer you. So you were patient for him. 

“I… didn’t know you.” His voice didn’t sound any different from earlier. It was still a low almost-rumble, rougher than Steve’s but about as deep. The sounds his mouth formed were different though, and halting, as though he were remembering how to use this language. “So I didn’t speak. After that… it came to be a habit.” 

After a second to think about it, you supposed you could understand that. It didn’t help the little pang that came with the realization he didn’t trust you. But… he was trusting you now, even if he’d been cornered into talking about it. You didn’t want to criticize him for opening up, so you chose your next question carefully. (Especially since he hadn’t answered the question you just asked.) 

“Where are you from?” you tried. 

From the way his eyebrows pulled together and he dropped his head again, this was as difficult a question as when you’d tried to ask him before with the translator. But this time, rather than offering him another question as an out, you waited. You wouldn’t push him if you had to but… answers. 

“I…” He started to speak, and then hesitated. Glancing to the side for a moment, you saw Steve staring intently at Bucky, and Natasha doing much the same. It was beginning to feel like an interrogation, and your insistence on straight answers warred with your desire to let Bucky be at ease around you and your friends. So just this time, you let him have an out. 

“I get that these are some fucking weird questions, especially given that how you  _ got _ here is really fucking weird—and we’re not trying to interrogate you, I promise. That’s just… not how we work, but I can’t speak for Natasha.” The dry look she shot you rolled off in favor of finding your next words. “And I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t push like this, I promise you, but I need to know how you got here. Because it  _ really _ affects how my livelihood will develop following the events with the gallery.” 

Bucky’s slight confusion reminded you, he didn’t know about the whole thing with the gallery, or everything that had gone down before his appearance. And again, you decided you could get to that later. Just like how you would explain everything to Natasha later. Ideally never-later, but never-later wasn’t always an option so it would likely be sooner-later that you filled her in. (The good news was that Bucky’s arm hadn’t caused any awkward looks or strange questions. Since the four of you were sitting by a window, it was still just chilly enough that he had a reason to keep his coat on.) 

He looked down at his crossed arms now, face screwed up. You knew that face. You’d made it enough times to recognize it on someone else. Remembering things was hard sometimes, and it seemed for Bucky that was especially true. 

“I don’t…” He hesitated again, breaking off and shifting his gaze off to the left, troubled. “I… I think—… Europe, 1940s. Or 50s. I can’t…” Exhaling quietly, he dropped his eyes again. “I can’t remember.” 

You frowned in thought, resting your elbows on the surface of the table. Steve leaned back slightly in his chair wearing much the same expression. You took advantage of the slightly stunned silence to formulate your next question. You were going to address the “Europe” point rather than the “1940s” point, because one answer was going to be easier to handle and it  _ certainly _ wasn’t the “eighty years ago” mention. 

“Why do you  _ think _ Europe?” you asked carefully. 

Bucky’s eyes met yours then, and aside from the wariness you already knew to be there, you also saw a little bit of appreciation there. Not respect, exactly, not gratefulness, but… awareness of why you were asking that specifically instead of the question that was more likely to lead to a complicated answer. 

“I have… problems with recall,” he murmured. “My memory—something happened, I don’t know what. And everything’s—everything’s in pieces.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t remember what happened. But I remember bits. And I don’t know what part of my memory they belong to.” Bucky paused a moment to consider his words before continuing. “Some of the last things I can remember, before you, was… Europe. Some European city. I was… I was in a uniform. I think.” 

He looked out the window, and you exhaled slowly, turning the information over in your mind. As a person, Bucky didn’t make a lot of sense. Not in the way he showed his feelings, or how he thought, but in how he came to be. How he ended up in your statue. 

You hated when things didn’t make sense. 

“So—European city. Okay. Not like there’s only thousands of them.” Your attempt at a lighthearted joke earned you a pair of exasperated looks, and neither of those was from Bucky. 

“There were when I was there.” His voice was quiet, reflective. “There are probably more now.” 

“Undoubtedly,” you agreed, sitting back in your seat with a sigh. “Oh boy. There’s a lot to unpack here.” 

“There is.” 

Bucky’s agreement came without inflection, which made it that much more difficult to figure out where to start. It seemed the only questions left were difficult ones, which you were loathe to ask since the answers they offered would probably lead to even more questions. 

Might as well ask the million-dollar question, then. 

“How did you end up in my statue?” 

Still not looking at you, his frown deepened. “I don’t know. I told you the last thing I remembered.” 

“If I may.” 

Everyone present looked over at Natasha when she cut in with a no-nonsense voice. Her confusion was carefully covered, but you and Steve had known her long enough to feel the frustration of being left out churning beneath the surface. 

“I think it’s about time that  _ someone _ present explains things from the beginning,” she stated firmly, gaze flicking between all three of you. Her eyes finally rested on you, as the instigator, and you crumpled immediately. You  _ did _ reach the conclusion that you would have to tell her at some point, after all. 

So you told Natasha everything, from getting that fateful call from the gallery all the way up to when you’d woken up to the sound you were trying very hard not to remember. And then you went past that, telling her how Steve had been instrumental in making everything about the “attempted burglary” seem legitimate (Steve came in handy here, as when you faltered he supplemented your tale with bits and pieces of his side of the story). You left nothing out when describing your (futile?) attempts to decipher what language or languages Bucky knew, even though explaining that  _ now _ made your cheeks flush in embarrassment. But that had never stopped you before, so you kept rolling with your tale. 

Nat listened without interruption, save for when you’d contradicted yourself on a point and she needed clarification. Telling the whole story took close to twenty minutes due to all of the details and context required for full comprehension, but you also didn’t want to risk leaving anything out. If Nat was in this far, she deserved to know the truth, and she could keep secrets with the best of them. 

After you finished with a slightly awkward, "And… well, here we are," Nat didn't respond immediately, instead choosing to fold her hands on the table in front of her as she digested the new information. 

She was quiet for over two minutes—you counted—and at around the two minute mark you began to squirm in your seat. When Nat was quiet for this long, there was often a vital point she was about to make, and you had the slight sinking feeling you got when someone pointed out a vital flaw in a plan, for instance. Only there was no plan here, not really. Just confusion, and trying to get a handful of nonsensical facts straight. 

“... What are you suggesting to the art gallery?” Natasha asked at length, turning her head to you. 

Opening your mouth before faltering, it took you a minute to formulate your reply. “I… don’t know, I haven’t decided yet, but what about Bucky? We need to find out where he came from and how he got in my statue–”

“No, we really don’t yet,” she interrupted, and the abruptness of Natasha cutting you off probably had more of an impact than her words did. Once they sank in, though, you frowned. 

“But—yes we do.” 

“No, we don’t,” she corrected patiently. That in itself was strange. Nat was normally  _ not _ patient with anyone she was debating with. “Consider this, ____. Between you and Bucky here, I care for your wellbeing far more than I care for his. That’s not to say I don’t care about him, because he matters to you so I very much  _ do _ , but his  _ origins  _ are neither immediately relevant nor damaging to your wellbeing and livelihood. So right now, while it would be interesting to hear, I am not prioritizing  _ where _ he came from over what  _ you _ are going to do to solve the conflict with the gallery. Am I clear?” 

Sometimes you were grateful for Nat’s ability to cut through the bullshit. Other times you couldn’t help but wince at the blunt manner in which she laid out facts. This right now was both of those times. You knew Nat  _ could _ phrase things delicately, or be professional yet cool, but just like her you sensed that the current situation required neither of those mentalities. You just weren’t ready yet to tell yourself everything she just did.

“Uh… I asked for another chance, not at carving another statue—the fucking marble was from  _ Carrara _ , even if insurance did partially cover it that shit’s expensive—but at creating a… duplicate? I guess? I dunno. Plaster would be too cheap and I’ve always had trouble working with it, plus it would be more fragile and feel way different.” 

“What about clay? I’m guessing wood is out of the question,” Steve put in. He had a good point, you’d been decent enough with clay through sculpture and ceramics classes,  _ and _ clay would be a damn sight cheaper than getting another block of marble, Carrara or no. Shit, Carrara marble as a  _ block _ and not a countertop ran over two hundred bucks for a chunk smaller than a square foot, and you’d created a  _ lot _ of excess in the process of carving the statue Bucky had popped out of. So the idea of the gallery shelling out another fifty grand or so for a chunk big enough to try again, let alone transport costs was  _ ridiculous _ . 

“Clay… clay could work,” you said slowly, “But since they were after techniques that have basically been around a while... Case in point, Nat, your oil painting was on panel, and Thor did that thing with lightning and sand, and mine is— _ was _ based off Classical sculpture, it could work. Tony’s just a special case. I was thinking, what about lost wax casting?” 

“Could work,” Steve hummed, resting his jaw in his hand. “Depending on what metal you picked, it would probably be cheaper, too.” 

“If I called for bronze, I could make the argument I was using Rodin as my primary influence,” you said thoughtfully. “His stuff’s been around a while. Or Cellini, you remember the Perseus and Medusa head one? That one’s bronze, right? And he was a big name after the Italian Renaissance.” 

“But bronze is more expensive than clay,” Natasha pointed out. “And clay is a little more forgiving. With bronze, if you damage the cast, you’re in trouble.” 

“Have you ever seen when someone left a bubble in their clay when it went into the kiln? I wouldn’t call that forgiving,” you grumbled. “With metal, you can melt it back down and reuse it. With clay, if it explodes in the kiln, that’s everything ruined and wasted.” 

“Yes, I too remember Thor’s mistake, but you didn’t make the same one.” 

“There’s a difference between constructing a skull out of clay and constructing an entire human being,” you contended. “If I make it to scale out of  _ clay _ —I don’t even know where there’s a kiln  _ that _ big within a hundred miles of here, and given how transportation went last time I’m not keen on trying it again.” 

“Not to mention, all of this hinges on if the gallery decides to give it another shot, rather than settling with insurance and giving you the cut for the time you put into it,” Steve observed. 

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. Things just went from zero to sixty and while you  _ could _ handle fast changes without losing your feet, you didn’t  _ like _ it. But this was something that needed worked out. “Assuming they want to try again… it’s a whole-ass new proposal for a lesser grant, which I  _ suck _ at—” 

“I can write it for you,” Natasha interrupted, laying a hand on your shoulder. 

“But finding a kiln big enough—” 

“Looking for one now,” Steve cut in, already typing something in on his phone. 

“Where’m I gonna find a  _ model— _ ” 

“He’s sitting right there, and in the event he decides to puss out, I’m still here.” Sometimes you  _ really _ appreciated Steve’s directness in countering your anxiety. Especially because he got where you were coming from and was able to counter it  _ efficiently. _ But anxiety aside, he was absolutely right. The man you’d carved yourself sat across from you now, eyes flicking between all three of you when you spoke and wearing a guarded expression. 

When you looked up at Bucky, he immediately met your eyes and held them. He’d have to agree to it first, but you figured that might be the easy part. Or not so easy, if he decided he didn’t want to strip down and stand still for an artist. It took a particular mindset, one that Steve possessed (and probably Tony, come to think of it) and you did not. He might reject the idea. So you’d have to offer him something to make it worthwhile. He already had a place to stay with you, but you wouldn’t try to maneuver a roof over someone’s head as payment for something. That was just shitty. But you couldn’t really afford to  _ pay _ him, not with the thing with the gallery and getting him some clothes and paying for more food than you’d eat by yourself. 

“I… I’ll wait to hear back from the gallery,” you said at last, dropping your head and rubbing your eyes. “Then make decisions. Not before.” 

“Reasonable course of action,” Nat approved. 

You offered her an uncertain smile. It wasn’t often Natasha offered praise, or patience, so when she offered either to you… you tried to pay attention. “Right. Erm… For now… Continue as normal. Work. Earn money. Money can be exchanged for goods and services. I get you.” 

Nat’s eyebrows came together in a dangerous V. “You’re supporting both of you by yourself?” 

Feeling suddenly sheepish, you nodded. “Well—yeah. I mean—Steve bought him clothes for me at the employee discount and I paid him back, plus there’s food, and apparently Bucky can eat  _ seven _ hotdogs in one go,” you added dryly, “But… I covered someone’s shift the other day so there’s a little extra on my paycheck.” 

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Natasha took a slow breath in and out, and you and Steve both withdrew a little from the table. That normally came before a well-deserved verbal beating. 

“____, I’m not going to tell you how to run your life—” Your sense of irony had you wanting to interject with a, ‘But you’re going to anyway?’ but your sense of self-preservation kept you from doing exactly that. “—But you  _ need _ to let someone help you with this.” 

In your peripheral vision you saw Steve open his mouth to object, but Natasha cut him off with a sharp gesture. 

“Steve, you know I love you, but you aren’t capable of supporting someone else,” she said. “Not for more than a week or so before it starts to hurt. And ____—you’re a barista.” 

“You don’t have to rub it in.” 

She shot you a dry look. “You can’t support another person for much longer. You’re either going to run yourself into the ground, or run out of money.”

“Thanks for telling me how hopeless my situation is,” you grumbled. 

“You know what I mean. I think you need to reach out to the group,” she continued. 

Your response was immediate. “Oh christ pissing on the cross, I’d never live that down, especially not from Tony.” 

“It’s not about living it down,” Natasha immediately retorted. “Tony’s the best-equipped to help you out here, for starters. And god knows  _ I _ can’t help until the sale goes through on my painting.” 

“So you did get an offer?” Steve piped up, and she nodded. 

“Yes, the gallery’s brokering it, I’m just waiting on a final figure. But I don’t have an estimated date on that yet, so I can’t help you yet.” 

“I can handle this—” you started to protest, but Natasha cut you off again. 

“This isn’t a matter of pride, ____.” 

“Yeah, but…  _ Tony? _ Really? I’d be happier asking Bruce or Thor rather than Tony. Don’t wanna touch that arrogant bastard with a ten foot pole.” 

“He’d probably like that,” Steve grumbled, and you nodded in agreement. 

You sighed, rubbing your eyes. “... I’ll reach out to Bruce first. Last I heard he was working for that fancy laboratory downtown. He’ll probably be able to loan me something. Tony is… I’m not kidding, Nat, he’s worse than a last resort.” 

“Noted. Do you still have his number?” 

“I think so. Assuming it hasn’t changed in the last year and some change, then yeah, I do.” 

“I messaged him a few weeks ago, that number’s still good,” Steve hummed, scrolling through his phone again. It would be too funny if he said he would find a suitably-sized kiln, and then was unable to. Funny in the ironic sense, not the genuinely amusing sense. 

“I’ll message him later this afternoon, once I’ve had a chance to scan for more jobs in the area,” you acquiesced, running a hand through your hair. 

“You aren’t thinking of trying to get another?”

“Of course I am. Once this shit is settled—if it ever does get settled— _ and _ if anyone can loan me some money for the time being, I’m going to need to find a way to pay them back. And if I keep at my current income level, I won’t be able to make that happen.” 

“You’re going to run yourself down.” 

“There are worse things,” you sighed. “Ideally something with fewer hours, but anything would help at this point. Maybe the library two blocks from here will be hiring someone to reshelve things.” 

“Doesn’t a librarian need to basically get their master’s, or something?” 

“Not if the library is low on options,” you joked with dark humor. “Figure I can at least check if they’re hiring. This city isn’t exactly known for their librarian degrees.” 

“More for their fine arts, yeah.” 

Natasha rolled her eyes, flicking your shoulder. “Just get going, you don’t know whether or not they have openings and the sooner you find out the better. And if I  _ happen _ to touch base with Bruce in a day or two and find out that you didn’t even contact him, there  _ will _ be retribution. Of the dire kind.” 

“Yes ma’am,” you chuckled, trying for a smile. It didn’t feel like it completely worked, but you were trying. Both Steve and Natasha would know that. Turning your gaze to Bucky, you eyed him with no small amount of speculation. “As for you… Now that I know you know English that will make things that much easier. The idea of you finding a job is out of the question, just because you don’t have a passport, or social security from the last however many years, or anything they would normally check when you apply for an above-board job.” 

“That leaves the opportunity for an under-the-table job,” Steve observed, and you nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, which is kinda the problem. If he does find a job like that and they decide not to pay him, he can’t exactly do anything about it.”

“Yes I can.” 

Bucky had been quiet for long enough that you were surprised when he spoke up, and your eyes narrowed. 

“You can?” 

He nodded once, a silent and certain gesture that exposed just  _ how _ certain he was of this statement. His eyes met yours again, and your breath caught in your chest at the  _ intensity _ of that blue. 

“I can,” he confirmed. 

And you had the sudden idea that if a pair of eyes like  _ those _ came up to you and quietly demanded that you pay him, you probably would without a second thought. So maybe he had a point. That wordless confidence was enough to intimidate anyone, you included, even if he wasn’t trying to do exactly that. 

“... Then… I guess construction is out of the question, some of the stuff’s changed since what you remember,” you mumbled, pinching the bridge of your nose. “So something else. Maybe—at a moving company, or something? It’s physical work, you probably wouldn’t have trouble with it, and they’re not as likely to ask for identification. Speaking of which—” 

“No.” 

Nat’s immediate refusal stopped your half-formed question in your throat and you shot her a scandalized look. “Why not??” 

“Shed that group a long time ago, not getting back into it,” she said in a clipped tone. 

“But he could really use one—” 

“I said  _ no. _ The reputation I’ve built is not worth the possibility of them  _ maybe _ still creating fakes.” 

It was dangerous to push Natasha on a decision, you knew this, but bad decisions hadn’t stopped you before. A fake ID for Bucky would make this whole thing a lot easier. “It wouldn’t even need to be a passport, can just be a normal driver’s license—” 

The venomous glare Nat shot you shut down your unwise decision then and there. “I. Said. No.” 

“Okay, okay,” you said quickly, verbally backing down as much as you could. “Just. It was an idea and it’d make things easier.” 

“It would,” she said firmly, “But my answer stands.” 

You huffed, slumping in your seat. “I don’t suppose a ‘please’ would help, would it?”

“Not in this case.” You could hear the faintest hint of a smile in her voice, to help soften the sledgehammer of denial she’d just executed you with. 

“Damn.” You ran your hand through your hair again, mind racing. “... I… maybe—no, never mind. Wouldn’t have enough to pay for it even if I did get their contact info. They aren’t as cheap now as they were in high school, huh?” 

“Not since the things they’ve started marking them with got more complicated,” Natasha agreed, before stopping herself. You figured that, just like with everything  _ you _ did, old habits died hard for Nat, too. 

_ Okay, new plan. _ A really easy way to get Bucky an entry-level job (like as a mover) would be with some form of ID. Driver’s license was the most common, and since people saw them all the time they were less likely to look very close at it. People saw what they expected to see. Which led you to another idea. 

“Okay, here’s another—”

“No.”

“C’mon, Nat, at least hear me out first!” 

“Fine. Go.” 

“You can pickpocket people, right?” 

Nat’s very,  _ very _ narrowed eyes flicked to you and you just about cowered under her gaze. “I  _ used _ to be able to. Where are you going with this?” 

You had a feeling she knew exactly where you were going with this, but was humoring you. And if that  _ was _ the case, she hadn’t shot you down just yet, which meant you might as well keep digging your figurative grave here. After all, bad ideas were your forte. 

“So imagine if we had a real driver’s license. Right? And some epoxy—” 

“____.” 

“—Hang on, let me finish. So we take a picture of Bucky here—” 

_ “____.” _

“—I’m almost done, hang on! So we take his picture and cut it to size and epoxy that fucker onto the license—” 

“I can’t agree to that—” 

“—and put it behind one of those little plastic screens in a wallet so people can’t tell the difference—” 

“—I said  _ no— _ ”

“—and voila, brand new license for Bucky!!” 

Natasha currently had her head in her hands, and Steve was staring at you with what you were sure was some bastardized mix of wonder, admiration, and downright fear. Bucky had his eyebrows raised, but hadn’t moved. Somehow you weren’t surprised by that. Maybe he was impressed too. 

Probably not. 

“... You are requestingv” 

_ “Asking.” _

_ “—ASKING _ me to steal someone’s driver’s license.” Nat lifted her head then, and the absolute weight behind her eyes almost had you tipping your chair over to back up. 

“Well I mean—they can replace it,” you fumbled, “But honestly Bucky really needs one and replacing it is only like fifteen bucks or something I would know I lost mine twice through college and one time it was mailed back to me and the other time you were  _ there _ for—” 

“Enough. ... Getting it without taking the wallet will be almost impossible,” she said after a long minute, but just her wording was enough that your heart lifted. ‘Will be’ had a totally different connotation that ‘would be.’ She was on your side with this. You just had to be patient a little longer. 

“After we get his ID out we can mail it back to him,” you offered, and she stopped you with a raised hand. 

“We  _ will _ afterwards, within 24 hours. I’d rather wear gloves.” 

“I still have some,” Steve hummed, and you took your cue from him. 

“And I’ve still got the epoxy I used a couple weeks ago for—um. The… arm.” The memory still caught in your chest like a nasty cough, only the sudden urge you felt was for a sob, not a cough. 

_ Get over it. You’re going to fix it, if the gallery approves. You just gotta be patient. _

Now was neither the time, nor the place. 

“We still need a good-quality photo of him, which I can provide, my camera is in full working order,” Nat continued, tapping her nails on the worn wooden surface of the table. “I’ve still got luster paper as well, I can print it.” 

“Then we just need to find a ‘willing’ participant—” 

Your phone rang, and your head jerked down to stare at it in your lap, a little dumbfounded. The name  _ “Gallery” _ popped up on screen, which meant one of two things. 

Either they’d accepted your offer at another chance, or they hadn’t. Either way this was them letting you know. 

“Answer it,” Steve urged gently, and you scrambled in your haste to pick it up without fat-fingering the answer button. 

“This—This is ____,” you managed in a voice that you  _ hoped _ wasn’t trembling as much as you felt like doing right then. The sudden surge of adrenaline the call had caused could fuck right off as far as you were concerned. 

_ “Hello, Ms. ____. This is Maria Hill. Is this a good time?” _

“Uh—yeah,  _ yes, _ absolutely, let me just—” You practically sprang out of your seat to head outside for the call, with Steve waving you out while Nat dropped your coat around your shoulders. You gave them a nod of thanks before continuing out the door, listening intently to the other end of the call. 

Steve sank back into his chair with a slow exhale, and though Natasha would never outwardly compromise her impression by doing that, he had the feeling she was doing the same. 

“She’s… a lot,” he offered, and Nat hummed a chuckle. 

“She is,” she agreed, “But her heart’s in the right place.” 

“Thanks for helping with this. I know it was all at short notice and all, and…” 

”You’re welcome,” she responded simply, before her eyes switched back to Bucky. “... As for you… we need a good picture of you sometime in the next day or two. Which you might want to fix your hair for.” 

All three occupants of the table stopped as you came back in, pale and looking a little shellshocked. 

“Well?” Steve asked immediately, and your eyes flicked from your phone in your hand to him. 

“Th-They said yes,” you got out, before promptly being wrapped up in a bear hug from your oversized friend. 

“That’s fantastic news, ____. What medium?” 

“Uh—Clay.” 

“Excellent,” Nat purred, steepling her fingers. “Then everything can proceed as planned.”

Despite your shock you managed a breathless giggle. “I just want you to know that was the most overstated ‘Mister Bond’ line I’ve ever heard out of you.”

“Your opinions, while sometimes appreciated, are wholly unnecessary.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. I've had plenty of time TO write, but my inspiration to do so has all but dried up. But I've been staring at the document for long enough that I wrote SOMETHING that was passable, so here's the chapter before that one. :) Hope you enjoyed!


	6. Is That a Coping Mechanism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of questions that need to be answered. Maybe this go-round, you'll get some answers.

The ID that Natasha (begrudgingly) swiped had belonged to a man that, from your brief glance at him, looked vaguely similar to Bucky. His height was about the same, hair was definitely the same color, and you couldn’t tell his eye color at that distance, but it was enough that the typed information on the license would match. 

Nat gave you a dirty look as she handed it over in your loft that evening, and you attempted to adopt a sheepish look as you accepted it. It didn’t work, if you were going on how her eyes narrowed, and you quickly turned your attention to the ID. It didn’t expire for several years yet, which if all went as planned meant that it would last far longer than needed. (You hadn’t considered yet if Bucky would be staying in the 21st century with you, or if you were going to try and find a way to send him back. Frankly, you didn’t  _ want _ to consider it yet. You’d gotten attached to him as a person.) 

“So. Where’d that polaroid go?” you asked, tipping your head back over the edge of the couch to look for Steve. 

“Right here,” he responded, dropping it in your outstretched hand. “I almost forgot I had that thing. It’s perfect for this.” 

“Right? And again, if it stays behind that wallet screen nobody will notice the ridge.” 

Nat’s quickly tapping foot put a halt to your cheerfulness over your perfect caper, and you turned your attention to opening the container of epoxy glue you had sitting on your coffee table. Some careful scissor trimming, even more careful positioning, and delicate epoxy application later, you nodded to yourself. “That should do it.” 

Steve leaned over the back of the couch to peer over your shoulder at the results, and he nodded. “Should pass muster if it stays in the wallet,” he mused, “But now we need a reason for him to get his physical paychecks in person. Not even checks, but paid in cash. Someone shifty enough to go for it.” 

“Art transportation would be too ironic, wouldn’t it?” you hummed, receiving all but a death glare from Natasha, and you relented with a sigh. “Look, Nat, I’m sorry I had to ask but I really couldn’t think of anything better—”

“That’s just it, you  _ don’t _ think.” Her caustic words stung, as they were probably intended to. Without giving you a chance to respond, she continued. “I told you  _ no _ . I left that kind of shit behind years ago with no intent to go back. Do you understand what I did for you today, and how much that  _ violated _ my standards for myself?” 

You paused, choosing your words carefully. You knew what you  _ wanted _ to say, but what you  _ meant _ to say would need to be phrased carefully in the interests of maintaining your friendship with Nat. “I… do understand, and appreciate,” you began slowly, almost giving in to the urge to avoid her gaze before correcting that mistake, “And I apologize for putting you in the position of subverting your standards—”

“Careful using big words,” she muttered darkly, eyes riveted on you. That was dangerous, but she was your friend, and you weren’t going to cow so easily on an  _ apology _ that was well-deserved. 

“Fuck the big words, then. I’m sorry, Nat. I asked you to do this and didn’t think about the impact that would have for you,” you said honestly, keeping her gaze. “I looked for an easier way out and I took it, and I’m sorry.” She didn’t seem convinced, so you kept going. Pride wasn’t worth it, not for this. “I didn’t consider everything before deciding on a course of action, and was too focused on me and Bucky to think about being a decent human being.”

Normally this would sound like sarcasm. But Nat and Steve had both known you for long enough—and heard you apologize enough—that every word rang with your sincerity. No ‘I’m sorry  _ but,’ _ or any way of insinuating that her reaction was her fault, that wasn’t an  _ apology. _ What you’d just delivered was probably the most sincere apology you could offer one of your oldest friends, and she would  _ know _ that. 

Natasha’s glare didn’t relent for a long minute, then she snorted, looking out the window again. “It’ll do,” she snapped. You were out of the danger zone, then. You still had some making up to do to Natasha, also as thanks for actually going out on that limb for you and some guy she’d just met the day before, but you didn’t think your friendship was on the rails anymore. 

You weren't sure if this would have been an honest to god deal-breaker for Nat after everything the two of you had gotten away with, but you'd rather not find out. Besides which, you didn't  _ like _ being in trouble with friends. All your close friends deserved as much stress relief as you could afford to give them while balancing your own. Nat definitely was included in that number. 

Speaking of number, you still needed to message Bruce. 

"Okay, so that needs to dry, and—Steve, would you hand me my phone? Thanks—I am going to message Bruce, and beg for mercy," you said in a semi-joking tone where the words really weren't that joking at all. “How the hell do I phrase this… ‘Hey Bruce I need to borrow some money’ is too casual, isn’t it? Also I dunno if he has  _ my _ number, so I probably should introduce myself in the first text to him—aw hell, how am I supposed to reach out and not make it sound like all I want from him is money, that’s the only reason I have his phone number?” 

“I’d offer to give him a heads-up but for one, that kind of defeats the purpose of  _ you _ doing this, and for two, I’m still upset with you,” Nat put in from where she was standing by the window. She wouldn’t look at you when she spoke, which definitely still stung, but you figured you could give Nat that one—all of her points had been valid. 

“That’s fair,” you murmured, looking down at your phone’s lock screen and trying to summon the courage to send Bruce a quick message. “... Could—this is so shitty to ask, I know, but—could you guys leave? This is… I’m really ashamed right now and I know I haven’t got a reason to be, but it’s true anyway.” 

Steve, bless him, didn’t even question. “Sure thing,” he responded, standing and patting your shoulder as he walked around the back of the couch. “Just let me know if you want company or something later.” 

“I will. Let you know, I mean. Thanks, Steve,” you hummed gratefully, offering him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. 

Natasha dropped a peck on your head on her way by, and you murmured another quiet thanks as they both stepped out your door, and it was a long minute before you gathered the energy to stand and throw the deadbolt behind them. You did live in the city, after all. 

“Are you… okay?” 

The hesitant question (and the low, gravelly voice that had asked it) gave you pause as you turned, and the gaze you fixed Bucky with felt a little bit shaky. “Um… Kind of.” 

He nodded once, digesting the information. “... Who’s Bruce?” 

His questions seemed innocent in the way a child’s were, yet in your apartment and standing as braced as he was for whatever might happen, he hardly seemed like a child. But the way he asked his questions, you didn’t have the heart to not answer him. 

“Bruce is a friend of mine from college. He double-majored in chemistry and fine art,” you answered, going to your coffeemaker and setting up a small pot. Who cared if it was eight in the evening? You needed coffee if you were going to be brave. It was easier to be brave when you had a hot drink, and unfortunately you were out of tea or hot chocolate. “Want some?” 

“... Sure.” 

In your peripheral vision, you saw Bucky pick up the license and inspect it. If he really  _ was _ from the early forties or whenever had been the height of World War II—strange how quickly you had just  _ accepted _ that fact—then this was probably a very different driver’s license than he was used to seeing. 

“Did they have pictures?” you asked, resting your arms on the back of the couch as you inspected Bucky inspecting the license that was now his. 

“Hm?” 

“Driving licenses of the 1940s,” you clarified, tilting your head. “I’ve never had a reason to go looking for them, I’ve no idea what they looked like.” 

“Oh.” He was quiet for a long moment, face screwed up as he concentrated on giving you an answer. You couldn’t help a small glow of appreciation that he was thinking so hard for a cursory question you’d asked. “... Some did. Mine did, I think. But I lost it…” Here, he hesitated. “... I lost it when I was—uh—behind enemy lines. I think. I knew a couple of men who didn’t. One of them was from Florida, I think.” 

The tone he’d used to specify  _ where _ he’d lost it tugged at your heartstrings. You weren’t familiar with the situation he’d been in, nor would you ask, but oh, you  _ knew _ the emotion attached to those words. It was a very particular feeling, one that was difficult to describe, but you knew what it felt like. It was the same feeling as standing still and watching the room you were in zoom away from you like it was on a track, and feeling like your limbs all tripled in length without you moving an inch. Watching something as if it were happening to someone else. 

Needless to say, it wasn’t a nice feeling. 

Your coffeepot, bless the overworked little appliance, beeped at that point signifying that coffee was ready, and you set out two well-loved mugs that you’d managed to avoid breaking for seven or eight years. They’d been to uni and back with you. You’d had every chance to replace them, but you hadn’t—sentimentality wasn’t a trait you often attributed to yourself, but here you were, considering that very thing. 

God, you were in a  _ mood _ this evening, weren’t you? The only way to fix that was humor, which you didn’t have a great supply of tonight. 

You offered a full mug to Bucky and he carefully took it from you, fingertips brushing against yours as he did so. It shouldn’t have been one, but such an intimate moment had you feeling quite shy, and you found yourself frustrated because of it. What had changed? Why didn’t you feel  _ quite _ the same curious ease around him, like you legitimately could ask him  _ anything _ ? 

Oh yeah. He could speak English.  _ That _ changed. You couldn’t decide if that was unfortunate or not. 

“... You ever have to be brave and you just… really don’t want to be?” you finally murmured, peering at Bucky over the rim of your mug from where you leaned against the counter. “Like—I’m sure my situation is so much less  _ vital _ than what you’ve probably had to deal with, but—I’m scared. I don’t want to owe anyone money. How am I going to pay it back? And just… it’s scary. You know?” 

He bobbed his head once or twice, eyebrows pulling together again. It seemed to almost be a constant with him, especially since that discussion with Nat in the bakery. “Being brave… is complicated,” he finally huffed, seeming to pick and choose his words with care. “Being brave is different from self-preservation. In this case, I think your situation counts as being a little of both.” 

Humming, you thought that maybe he was right. Scratch the maybe, he  _ was _ right. And when you needed more money to keep two people fed and afloat, and there was a potential solution, you had to be brave. 

“... Hope he didn’t sack out early, then,” you murmured, pulling out your phone and scrolling through your contacts to find Bruce’s number. Bruce was a good guy, a genuinely decent man. And if you weren’t mistaken, your bank credit was somewhere between “haha no” and just “no.” It wasn’t like you could go beg for a loan. And your earlier point still counted. If you couldn’t make enough now to keep you both alive with a roof, how would you make the extra to pay off a debt? 

Hence, Bruce. 

Before you lost your nerve again, you tapped out a quick text asking if he could call you tomorrow and sending it. Now you were locked in, no backing out. You were going to follow this path as much as it took to keep you and Bucky financially comfortable. He trusted you, gods knew why, and you weren’t going to let him down. 

“Tell me something.” 

Bucky lifted his head a little, discarding the idea of feigning more interest in his coffee than in what you were doing. “Yes?” 

“You don’t remember an awful lot,” you observed, taking a long sip of your coffee. “So, tell me what you  _ do _ remember.” 

“It won’t be much of a story,” he said dryly, and you waved a hand dismissively. 

“It will be a start. Include anything really spectacularly out of the ordinary, if you think of it. We’re going to start trying to narrow down where things went from realistic to fantastical, and I have a good idea of where mine started, so we’re moving on to yours,” you rattled off, taking a seat on your couch on the other side of the coffee table from Bucky. 

His eyes narrowed when you stated you had a good idea of where things started going haywire on your end, but he dropped his gaze to his coffee, face screwing up in the now-familiar way that meant he was trying to remember something. And for your part, you let him think, because pressuring him now wouldn’t do anything but harass him, and it wouldn’t get you your answers. 

Besides which, you really didn’t  _ want _ to be an asshole to Bucky. Some small aspects of his behavior that you couldn’t quite identify told you he’d been through more than his fair share of negative experiences, and you just weren’t that mean. 

It did make you wonder what exactly he’d been through. But if he was from the war, as it seemed he was, then there was more than enough to unpack there. 

“... I was in a… I think a hotel room,” he began haltingly. “It wasn’t nice. I was there to meet someone… a woman, I think.” 

If the ever-constant presence of ‘I think’ wasn’t already enough of a clue, Bucky was struggling to piece together whatever he might have forgotten. 

“.... No, no, that’s not right. I was there to meet…” His face screwed up further, and you countered a thought to tell him it was okay, he didn't need to work that hard on your behalf. Something about how he spoke now made you want to protect him. But you didn’t think Bucky wanted to be protected. “... Someone. A—a contact. But not the woman who was there to meet me,” he said, a little more confidently this time. 

“A woman?” you hummed, resting your chin in your hand. “Did you know her?”  _ Not your business. _

“No.” His answer was decisive, which made a notable change in his retelling of events. “I would know if I’d seen her before. I didn’t know her.” 

Which meant she must have been a particularly striking woman, but you’d get to that and the little sting of jealousy it caused later. 

“What was she there for? You said she wasn’t who you were going to meet. So why was she there?” 

This time, Bucky’s face shifted into a grimace. “I’m not sure. But I know she wasn’t supposed to be there. I was there for…” 

In an instant, the mood in the room changed, and you checked your coffee on its way to your mouth. His expression may have relaxed slightly, but the vibe rolling off of him now wasn’t one you liked. “... Bucky..?” 

“I was there to kill someone.” 

His voice was flat, and not carefully measured like his words had been up to now. It bothered you, but not for the reasons you thought it would. 

Moving slowly and deliberately, you rose from your spot on the couch and moved to sit next to Bucky on the loveseat. You thought—you might be wrong, of course, but you thought—maybe he needed someone to ground him now. You weren’t sure why that seemed like the best course of action, but it seemed like it might help him so you took it. 

“And she wasn’t the person you were there to kill?” 

Sitting next to a likely hitman (war or no) didn’t bother you. You were judging Bucky based on his behavior as long as you’d known him, because that was fair to him. Likewise, he would be basing his opinion of you on what he knew of you, not just because it was fair but also because it was all he knew. 

And Bucky hadn’t proven himself a danger to you, your friends, or anyone you’d passed. So you weren’t bothered. He was to you as he’d shown himself to be, and he didn’t show himself to be a murderer. 

Might not have been the  _ smartest _ decision, but you were already inclined to think the better of Bucky because of your bond with the statue he had _ been _ . 

“No. She wasn’t.” He closed his eyes briefly, seeming to gather his thoughts. “She told me… something important, something I needed to remember, and then… nothing.” The last word was huffed in frustration. “The next thing I remember is falling onto a bunch of rocks.” 

_ My statue. _ Your heart clenched at the memory, and once again you shoved it away. It wasn’t a healthy coping mechanism, but you were doing it anyway until you had a breather to sit and deal with everything you’d been shutting down until now. 

“Right. Rocks.” 

He looked up at you then, and the sheer concentration of the blue in his eyes almost made your rising grief die away entirely. 

“I’m sorry for that,” Bucky said softly, and you managed a small smile for him. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was real, and you thought that he deserved that much. 

Reaching up, you patted his cheek. “By the sound of it, wasn’t something you could have helped,” you responded. “Besides, I know exactly how you’re going to make it up to me.” 

You could feel his wary gaze on your back as you got up to wash your coffee mug. “How would that work?” 

“I need to build another statue for the gallery, doing clay this time. Once I get the armature put together, I’m going to need  _ you. _ ”

“Me?”

“Yup. You. I’m going to measure every inch of you, eyebrow to ear, wrist to fingertip, navel to nose, and recreate as much as I can, as accurately as I can. Because if that sells, I’ll get paid, and then we won’t have to worry about begging Bruce for money. Actually—” 

You swung around, peering at Bucky’s left arm. All you could see of it over the back of the loveseat was his deltoid, but that didn’t matter much. You still had the metal arm from what was left of the sculpture you’d been trying to mend. What if you used that on the clay? 

What if you really could create a replica of Bucky? 

Would that sell? 

It seemed likely. He was an attractive man, and attractive sculptures sold much faster than unattractive ones.

“... Of course, all this hinges on your agreeing to be my model,” you continued after a too-long pause, “And I’m really, really hoping you will be because it took  _ months _ with Steve being my model last time because he can’t take off of work that often and he  _ does _ need breaks. Granted, you also need breaks, but until we can find you somewhere paying under the table you’re technically unemployed and therefore my model. Which means a lot of sketches and a lot of working from life. And  _ that _ means the ceramics rooms a few streets over from the gallery,” you finished, starting back over to your couch. A good first step would be to look up what that workshop charged for uses of private rooms, for precisely situations such as this. 

Problem was, in passing your coffee table you jammed your outside toe against the corner, sending you toppling with a loud swear to the carpet, where you curled up in pain with both hands wrapped around your foot. 

It took you a long moment to realize that Bucky had a similar reaction to you stubbing your toe, and was wincing as he examined his own before looking to you. 

“You didn’t do that at the same time, did you? That would just be lame,” you managed, sitting up with a quiet string of swears before examining the very red little digit. 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“Wh—you didn’t?”

“No.” 

You peered over at Bucky’s socked feet suspiciously. “Well, if you didn’t, then what happened?” 

“I don’t know.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “It  _ hurt _ like I’d done the same.” 

“That’s… bizarre. I’m almost tempted to try it with the other foot but it’s probably something else that’s caused yours.” 

“Probably,” he agreed a little dubiously, returning his foot to the floor. 

And, since it wasn’t of huge importance in your life, you dismissed it and returned to worrying about practical things. “So. Stubbed toe aside, I need a distraction from all my stress and worry. The best way I’ve found to do that is to sink into my artwork. And I happen to have a few drawing pads here. If I stick up some lights at various angles, would you strip down at least most of the way so I can draw you?” 

The silence for a long moment broke into your process, and you froze as you remembered that normal people weren’t used to being life models—and by extension, completely naked in front of other people. Steve was, and he was your best friend. Bucky was also a friend, you thought, but he was unaccustomed to being a life model. 

Which meant not only had you made some assumptions and he hadn’t corrected you, but it also meant you were living up to what Nat had said earlier. You were self-centered, you didn’t think about your actions before you did them—she was absolutely right. 

Of  _ course _ she was right, she usually was, but this time it hit home in a way most of her uncomfortable analyses often  _ didn’t _ . 

Ugh. If you thought you hated everyone, you needed food. If you thought everyone hated you, you needed to sleep. Which meant it was time for bed now. Like, right now.  _ Right _ now. 

“Right. Okay. Bed. I need sleep. First, brush teeth, then wash face. Then go to bed. You.” You swivelled around on a heel to point your hands, palms pressed together, towards Bucky, whose head snapped up slightly to attention when you  _ did _ address him. “You need a place to sleep. You’ve been sleeping on the couch for a few nights. I know from experience it’s not good for your back, you fucking ache all over when you wake up in the morning, and frankly I don’t know how you stand it—” Why were you rambling so damn much? Oh. Right. Coffee before bed was generally a bad idea, wasn’t it? 

God, you needed to get your life together. 

“—but there’s space in my bed for someone else and I’d feel awful if you kept sleeping on that damn couch, and I promise I don’t snore, so I’d really like if you just slept in my bed,” you finished, fairly certain your cheeks were pinker than you preferred them but also too stubborn on your point to back down. “If it makes you feel better we can have a pillow wall between us, I don’t care, but—”

“Sure.” 

Bucky’s calm agreement had you stumbling in your verbal tracks, starting a few words before abandoning them. “That’s—yeah, that’s good. That’s great. It’ll be better for you. Okay. You’ve got your own toothbrush in the bathroom, I really recommend you use it because good dental hygiene is important.” 

With a smooth, rolling motion Bucky was on his feet, and you suddenly thought that you’d never risen so gracefully from any seat in your life. 

_ Focus. _

Thus began your nighttime runaround routine, which often included cleaning up around your bed a bit, straightening the sheets before you slept in them, making sure any dirty clothes made it to the hamper, and putting away books or drawing supplies you’d often left out. Hanging up your apron for work, too. 

It was only because you weren’t actively talking after that point that you noticed how easy it was to move around Bucky when he was also moving. Normally you got that kind of general ease with Steve or Natasha, anyone else you tended to at least bump elbows with—but not Bucky. He too seemed to have incredible awareness of where various parts of his body were at any given time, and you and he were sidestepping each other with impressive skill while you buzzed around with your nighttime routine. It did end with you two climbing into bed at the same time, though. 

You weren’t sure why you expected falling asleep with Bucky in your bed to be astronomically different from falling asleep with Steve in your bed. But the two were similar in that they were quiet, quick to sleep, and probably woke up in a similar position as they fell asleep in. You expected it to be strange, falling asleep next to someone that (when you reflected on it) you really didn’t know  _ that _ well. But it took you no time at all to fall asleep; you were out as soon as your head hit the pillow, which you counted among your blessings. 

After all, today had been far too long.

* * *

“Ms. _____, hello.” 

“Good to see you again, Maria,” you said, greeting her with a handshake and a smile that was just the smallest bit forced. Since you’d started taking on extra shifts, the amount of sleep and general free time you’d had was spectacularly low, and it showed. “Apologies I’m a few minutes late. I was making sure all the clay got into the bins with minimum spillage, and enough water that it won’t dry out in a hurry.” 

“Understandable, of course,” she responded with a cool smile. “I appreciate that you’re respecting the medium.” 

“You’re giving me another chance on almost no notice, it’s the least I can do. Thanks for making time to meet with me.” 

She gave you a cool nod, taking a seat behind her desk. You sat in the same chair as before, noting absently that it was comfortable without being inviting. That was perfect for an office, in your professional opinion. Maybe if you ever had an office you would ask Maria where she’d gotten those chairs. 

Or maybe you’d just stick to a studio. 

“Now, how long are you projecting this will take? Any kind of time frame?” 

Maria’s words jolted you back from your mental meandering and your head snapped up to look at her, the words taking just a moment to process. You were here to talk about the process of creating the sculpture. “Erm… Yes. Time frame. I have definitely thought about that.” You hadn’t. “I just finished collecting stuff for the armature last night, at least all the armature I think I’m going to need. I need to weld some rebar together for the limbs and wrap that in stuff to buff it out some, meaning, uh—” 

“A minimum of clay would be required to shape the outside,” Maria finished, folding her hands on her desk. “Understood.” 

“Yeah, exactly. Um… it dries fairly quick but I dunno how long something like that would take to fire, even in the big fancy kiln, so that would allow… probably a day or two on the outside, which isn’t long in the grand scheme. I can probably do it in three weeks, if I take a little time off work. If I don’t, a month.” God, you sounded so unprofessional with your word choices. Maybe you should fix that. 

Then again, the only surefire way to  _ fix _ how scatterbrained you were right now was to get more sleep, and you had too much to do to risk a full night’s sleep. 

“Three weeks? You’re certain?” 

“Yeah, as certain as I can be. I mean—I’ve got the model staying with me at the moment,” you rambled, “So it’s—it’s easy to arrange studies, or, um, modeling sessions for working with the clay and the model at the same time. If you wanted to add extra time to allow for transport and firing, then maybe more time, but that’s what I can be sure about.”

Maria quickly made a few well-organized notes on a steno pad before looking back up to you. “Then to allow for inconsistencies, we’ll tell the potential buyer a month. Will that be sufficient?”

“Yeah, it should be completely done within that time frame.” 

“Excellent,” she responded, making another note on her paper. “Would you be comfortable providing in-progress shots?” 

“With the understanding they  _ are _ in-progress and things aren’t complete yet, absolutely.” 

“Will you be adding a patina or glaze to the surface?” 

“I was thinking about it. I think a glaze for the eyes would accomplish a lot, the same way as the marble was, with how I shined the eyes a little extra. So, yes.” You may have been mumbling through your answers a little bit, but hell if you weren’t going to give Maria Hill straight answers here and now. After all, you were decent at making fast decisions on the fly. This wasn’t out of your comfort zone yet. 

“Will the arms be clay as well, or do you intend to utilize the scrap metal you were crafting for the marble?” 

That gave you pause, and you took a moment to honestly consider it. You’d already  _ made _ it, it wasn’t as if you’d be using it for anything else anytime soon. 

“... I’m going to use the metal arm for the clay sculpture, yes,” you stated confidently, meeting her eyes again. Tired as you were, the habits of speaking properly and being professional were starting to come back to you. There may have been no fixing your tone, but your word choice you could  _ try _ to regain control over. You ruled the wording part of your mind with an iron fist. You could do this. 

And it would be poetic if you used the arm you’d crafted for the marble statue with the clay one. Besides, it’d be awful if all the work you put in on the arm went to waste. You’d been so careful welding it and polishing it, after all. 

“Are you putting it on a plinth or pedestal?” 

Again, you paused. “... I want it to be as close as I can get it to the marble version, so yes, a small one. It won’t be as large as the marble one was, though.” 

“So he’ll be anchored at the feet, not freestanding?”

“Correct,” you affirmed. 

“Do you have everything you need for the armature?”

“Yes, I do. The rebar from the salvage place arrived yesterday, the other stuff I was able to locate.”

Maria scribbled down a few more notes in a frighteningly neat script, then opened a small desk drawer to withdraw a business card, which she handed to you. “I should have given you one of these some time ago, which is my mistake, but you can use the email address on there to send in-progress photos—once you have them, of course.” 

“Sure,” you agreed readily, pulling out your wallet to slot the business card neatly into an empty space on the left. “Thank you.” 

“My pleasure. Do you have any concerns you would like to address while you’re here?” 

“None I can think of,” you answered honestly. “If that changes, I can leave you a message or shoot you an email or something.” 

“Absolutely. I typically respond to emails or calls within the day, and if not then, the day after.” 

“Great. Do  _ you _ have any more questions for  _ me? _ ” 

Maria steepled her fingers, studying you over them while she thought. Her piercing gaze made you feel uncomfortably like you’d been called to the principal’s office and had to make a deal with them so they didn’t tell your parents. “... Are you compensating the model, or will that become part of the budget?” 

_ Ooh, good question. _ “I’m compensating him.”  _ With housing and goodwill, which shouldn’t have to be  _ payment _ for anyone, but here we are. _

“Noted.” Maria made another small note on her writing pad. “Is there anything else you feel the need to discuss?” 

_ Damn, she’s efficient. _ “No, I think I’m good.” 

“Excellent. Then keep us up to date on progress with the sculpture, and we will keep contact with the potential buyer to see if they would be interested in progress photos or not. I don’t imagine they will be, but it of course won’t hurt to ask.” 

“Of course,” you agreed, standing when she did and bidding her good day before leaving the gallery. 

Next stop: studio. You’d stopped by there with Bucky beforehand so he would be there when you arrived, now that he knew his way there. You fiddled with a loose string on the inside of your coat pocket while you walked, turning over the events that you knew needed to happen in your head before everything was “due,” so to speak. 

You needed to get to that pottery studio room you’d reserved with the help of the gallery, all the barrels of clay were in there. The armature was the first thing that needed done, so today would be all measuring. There was a heater in the room as well, so when Bucky stripped down he wouldn’t freeze. He wouldn’t even need to be nude for the armature, just in his boxers would be fine, but he still would need to show some skin. 

Next would be actually applying the clay to the armature, and modeling it to match what was in front of you. That would take the longest, it would have to be done in stages because you couldn’t take that many days off from work in a row. 

After that, the firing. This studio actually had a kiln that would fit the statue you had in mind. Having done a few hours’ worth of research in what little free time you had, you’d learned relatively quickly that this was, in fact, the  _ only _ studio in the city with a kiln the size you needed. You had no doubt that Maria or someone under her had done the same research—but you also didn’t think you could afford not to do the same research yourself and come across as someone who hadn’t bothered to look, someone who expected others to do the hard work for them. 

When you realized during one of your meetings with the gallery that you’d reached the same conclusion they had, you were  _ glad _ you’d done that research. 

You trotted over a crosswalk while you mulled over the process, paying more attention to where you were placing your feet rather than where you were going, and you rocked back on your heels when you accidentally shoulder-checked a woman coming out of a shop at that exact moment. 

“Crap, I’m so sorry!” you gasped, automatically reaching out to steady her. “I’m so so sorry, I was thinking too hard and wasn’t paying attention—are you okay??” 

She laughed, and you had an instant of a confused mix of excitement and adoration over the light, gentle sound. “I am well,” she assured you, giving herself a quick look-over and back to you with an especially piercing gaze. “All is forgiven. You have enough to worry about, I think.” 

Your response caught in your throat and you couldn’t help a slightly suspicious, slightly unnerved look. “I—what do you mean?” 

She seemed to catch herself. “If you were not looking at your path, then it must be something serious you are thinking about?” 

“Oh—yeah, it… kinda is. Lot of mix-ups and facts that don’t add up,” you admitted, halting there before you succumbed to the inclination to tell this woman everything that was going on. And by the expectant look on her face, she was waiting on you for that. “I…” You could swear you’d seen her before. But you hadn’t, you knew for certain. You would remember eyes like those, combined with the heart-shaped face and full lips. And now you had to wonder how you missed her initially, with the masses of curly auburn hair that tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. “... I’m sorry, have we met?” you asked instead, knowing already that you hadn’t but seeking an explanation nonetheless. 

The woman laughed again, the purely  _ happy _ sound pulling at the corners of your mouth in an answering smile despite yourself. “Not exactly! You wouldn’t remember me, I’m sure,” she told you with a knowing grin. 

“No, I’m pretty certain I’d remember you.” You were sure about that part. 

“Well, aren’t I flattered! But now’s not the time, I’m afraid. You’ll figure it out,” she said confidently, reaching up and patting your cheek in much the same manner as you did to Steve fairly frequently. It was a familiar motion. “I have somewhere I need to be. Don’t worry, you’ll see me again soon, ____.” 

She wove around you and had disappeared into the group that was crossing the crosswalk you’d just traversed by the time her words registered, and you whipped around to search the heads, but her distinctive and vivid hair was nowhere to be seen in the small crowd. 

You frowned, having the uncomfortable feeling again that you’d missed something important. 

But the fact of the matter was, this was far from the strangest experience you’d had while living in the city, and while the encounter as a whole started to fade as you continued walking towards the studio, you couldn’t help but turn her words over in your head. It was easy to sink back into your thoughts, with your eyes on the ground right in front of you rather than ahead of you. 

What had she meant, that you wouldn’t remember her? You  _ definitely _ hadn’t seen her before, at least not in the last several years. Eyes with that much weight behind them didn’t come around often. You’d seen them occasionally in former soldiers, sometimes when you met a nurse or a doctor—but Bucky’s eyes had the same trait, you reflected. 

What would you figure out? How did she know you’d see her again soon? 

And how did she know your name? 

_ More questions. Wonderful, _ you thought grumpily, stomping off towards the studio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in the middle of job hunting I've been doing a little writing. Little bit at a time, one paragraph at a time, and it's going really slowly. But that's okay, because it means I finished a chapter for you all! :) 
> 
> I hope everyone had / is having excellent holidays, and is staying safe and healthy. 
> 
> As always, if you spot any inconsistencies or errors or typos or anything, just let me know so I can fix them! :) I'm afraid I'm working without a proofreader at the moment so I'm only catching so many issues.


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